The Perfect Fusion of Mind and Heart
by masterlovesdoctor
Summary: A fiction series about the return of the riechbach hero, his new cases and hidden romance. Many new cases and new feelings for the consulting detective with his blogger. Supporting Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

John's fingers tapped the keyboard lightly, the sound of the keys resonated through the small living room of 221B.

_It has been 3 years since_

His hand hovered over the keyboard, not wanting to write.

_It has been 3 years since sh_

Backspace.

Why was he still writing the blog? Less people go on it now that Sher… Anyway, he didn't know. His psychiatrist told him it would help him with relieving his feelings, but really, all it did was bring back old memories and he would crumble to a heap.

Mrs. Hudson had helped, constantly breaking her rule of not being a housekeeper and would make tea for the both of them. And talk about…him.

But Mrs. Hudson would be the first one to start crying and John would have to be strong again, to talk better of tomorrow even if he doubted it.

Mycroft wasn't much help either, apart from simple minimal tears tracing down his face, he really did not talk much about him. Only discussed government matters with John. Though John knew Mycroft was blaming himself, he wished he were as strong as Mycroft, able to look over his feelings and concentrate on his job. The two brothers were so alike, yet so different.

Sometimes John would visit Lestrade's office, make quick chat before he had to run off to a case, Donovan showed sympathy, but never forgot to make a quick comment about she was always right on Sher…on his ways. Anderson would sometimes snigger in the background before walking away, John had always made a mental note to yell at him, but his respect got the better of him.

Molly had never seemed too sad about him, but John left it to Sher…his constant rejection towards her and Molly probably hasn't got it in her head that he was…gone.

There, he said it.

John stood and made his way to the kitchen, his tea had grown cold and he couldn't think of anything else that would help at the moment. Opening the fridge, he found himself bracing his nerves for severed limbs or even heads in the middle shelf. But finding an almost empty fridge made him feel alone.

John boiled the water and brought out a tea bag.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled, hoping the old lady could hear him from downstairs.

"Yes dear?" the old lady's footsteps could be heard from the kitchen.

"Would you like some tea?" John poured his cold tea down the sink, his hand resting on the handle to the cupboard, waiting for a reply.

"Oh no thanks John," Mrs. Hudson stepped into the flat; a weak smile supported her face. "I've got to go to the chemist, need more pills for me hip."

"Okay." John poured the boiling water into his mug and plopped the tea bag in, watching the brown essence slowly filling the water around.

And again, the tapping began. John found himself always backspacing his real feelings. That's you trying to deny it ever happened, as his psychiatrist had told him on multiple occasions. Mycroft, instead, said he was still believing in him, and hoping for the impossible, hoping for him to come back.

And he was.

But with losing hope every night.

Though just recently I could hear the sound of violin playing at about 9 every Monday.

And he had, John didn't know why he would want to share that information with everyone. He guessed it gave him more hope, declaring evidence to the world.

And it was like exactly how he would play it, maybe it is him, but I never had the strength to go out and find out.

Of course he hadn't, he didn't want to go out and see a street artist trying to earn some cash. Or worse, John didn't want to go out, only to find it was nothing but his imagination and that he has gone mad.

"Okay, that's enough." John told himself and he pushed the lid down on his laptop, "Enough of all this thinking and…"

And what?

Remembering.

He didn't want to remember, he didn't want to realize he eventually could only remember. Sher…he, he had affected him in so many ways that John didn't even realize before…before the incident.

John found himself always trying to look hard at someone to deduce, to see if he could see what He saw. But he never did, never had that much talent and brain. And the times that he had glanced over at His violin, John had wanted to learn it, if only on a subconscious level, John wanted him back, or at least, the familiar sounds of him still here.

The clock ticked slowly, each tick echoing in his mind, reminding him that time is still turning forward, no matter what has happened.

John still sat there, taking a side-glance to the clock. It was eleven-forty pm, but he sat there, staring at the couch where He would sit.

"Why am I still here?" He asked himself, putting his fingers to his temple. It was never enough, the questions in hope that he would find sense in the world again, nothing was ever enough. He needed to come back.

Mrs. Hudson had come back from the chemist; she walked in to see John staring at the couch opposite him. Sure enough, she knew what was going on. It was nine already, John would go to sleep soon.

She made her way down the stairs, making sure her footsteps were loud so that John would hear them and realize the time and hopefully go to sleep.

She put her pills down on the cabinet in her room, and got ready for bed.

It was the next morning, Mrs. Hudson didn't have a perfectly pleasant sleep, only until laying around for about two hours did she fall asleep. Only to be woken up forty minutes later by a stray cat outside. The thing that worried her most was that there wasn't a smell of bacon and eggs around the house. John would usually be running about now, cooking breakfast.

"Oh John." Mrs. Hudson walked up the stairs and saw John splayed out on his couch, asleep. "Not again."

John's nose twitched slightly, the smell of bacon was filling his nostrils and scent doesn't usually come on very strongly in dreams.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he murmured, half asleep.

"Don't start again on the chair staring dear," Mrs. Hudson answered his call, "You're not going to make any difference sitting there."

"Yes ma'am." John muttered, and stood himself up. Mrs. Hudson made breakfast again for him, the fourth time this month.

"Now come on, eat up, work's waiting for you." She placed the plate down with a knife and fork.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson, could I get a cup of coffee as well?" John had started on the eggs.

"Just this once dear," Mrs. Hudson walked back into the Kitchen, "I'm not your house keeper."

John tightened his blue tie against his grey suit and tapped the intercom microphone.

"Would Mrs. Trayson come to Doctor Watson please." He spoke to the microphone, hearing the sound blasting out at the other end of the corridor. He was sitting in his doctor's office waiting for the next patient; Sarah had been sympathetic enough for him to give him a chance at the job again. But she was still avoiding him when possible, convinced he was dangerous.

"Good morning, Mrs. Trayson." He looked up to the middle aged woman that walked into the room, excited to start another day of work. Wishing he could forget everything else and just work.

During the walk home from work, John found himself wondering if he should turn his interest and spare time into finding a woman again. Sarah was out of the question; all the others have decided he was not a great boyfriend. But now that…well, now he could start again, not be distracted.

Passing the café outside 221B, John stopped to a text.

It was Mycroft.

Care for afternoon tea?

-MH

Mycroft had finally started texting and calling John instead of getting secret taxies and using security cameras, partly because now that He is gone, there's not point in all of the tension and secrecy and the need to impress. But also because Mycroft found that John was the only other person that he could talk to that didn't hate Sher…Him. That they could find a common ground and Mycroft would have a vent for all his regret.

So John steered himself into the café, looking for the familiar slightly orange tinged hair.

"Hello Mycroft." He said as he sat down with a sad smile, knowing what the conversations were going to be about.

"John." Mycroft nodded to acknowledge his presence. He had been, unfortunately, putting on a little bit of weight. But nothing he couldn't handle.

"So," John sat his paper work for work next to him, freeing his hands, "You never message me if there is nothing."

Mycroft smiled, his usual sarcastic smile.

"Yes." He agreed with another slight nod.

"Well, spit it out."

"I'm just here for chit chat." Mycroft admitted, looking away from John.

John laughed; he raised his head and stretched out his arms.

"The British government goes to me for chit chat?" He joked with little mockery. "I must have done something incredibly wrong."

"No." Mycroft dragged the vowel out, obviously bored and picked at his plate with a fork. "It's just the rest of the government don't have time for chit chat."

Somehow they got on the topic of Moriarty, even though John didn't want this conversation, he knows it's important.

"Did you trace down his body?" John had asked, maybe he thought if Moriarty still lived, maybe Sher…He would too.

"Yes we did." Mycroft replied with a smile, satisfied but bitter. "A bullet straight through his head."

"Is His name cleared then?"

"Moriarty?"

"No, sh…your brother."

"More or less." Mycroft seemed satisfied with his food, and put his fork down.

John had wished they wouldn't spend much time discussing this matter, so between ordering his own dinner and takeaway for Mrs. Hudson, he decided to change the subject.

"Diet?" John only brought up the one word; he didn't want to upset the government or Mycroft.

Mycroft chuckled, during the three years he had decided that his weight didn't matter as much. All his thinking had been taken up by his disappointment in himself.

"I'm trying." He chuckled, "Don't think it's working."

John's dinner arrived, he felt a little guilty that Mrs. Hudson wasn't receiving hers the same time as him considering she made him breakfast, but got over it seeing he was buying anyway.

"Anyway." Mycroft stood up, his fob watch dangling from his pea coat. "Better be going, government doesn't like to wait."

"Of course." John started on his dinner, he looked up temporarily form his salad and steak to say his goodbyes to Mycroft and watched him leave.

The homeless network wasn't very sad that He was gone.

John started typing again, it was about 8:50 pm and everything was quiet out side.

Apparently they found a different sponsor for their eyes and ears. At least that's another group of people that is happy.

John paused; he picked up his cup of tea and held it in his hands under his nose. If he was right, the violin should start about now. He should hear it outside.

"Are you still writing your blog dear?" Mrs. Hudson walked in, a worried look on her face.

"Yes." John stated, "Did you enjoy the dinner I brought back?"

"Yes, thank you dear." Mrs. Hudson started on her way back. "Don't fall asleep on the couch again, It's bad for your back. I know."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson." John called after she walked down the stairs and turned to face his laptop.

Just, to the people out there, if you are reading this. He wasn't a fraud.

Why was he writing this?

He was the most legitimate, brilliant consultant detective there was.

And his name is cleared now.

I believe in Him.

He was getting his feelings out, like his psychiatrist had said.

Submit

Done.

It was out there.

After three years, he had finally let his feelings out there.

Then the violin started.

Maybe he shouldn't, John though immediately as he put on his jacket and stepped out onto the stairs.

But the violin was so familiar and it sounded so brilliant. It was drawing him.

Putting his cold hands onto the doorknob, John decided that maybe he didn't want to face rejection. Maybe he just wanted to live in the possibility that the violin was indeed Him, not just some amateur violinist playing in the street and decided on the front of 221B Baker Street.

But the music.

He stepped out, excited and worried at the same time.

His emotions draining out of him.

He had been playing for nearly fifteen minutes now; maybe he should wait for next Monday.

_Their stupid little brains. It's not exactly rocket science._

But the door opened and a small smirk rose to his face.

_Finally._

John appeared in his view and he felt his own heartbeat increasing.

_Interesting._

He was sure he didn't look any different, apart from slight hair growth he looked basically exactly the same.

_Come on John, Just look to you left._

John turned to him, and froze.

"Sher…Sherlock?" John asked softly, as if he was still scared of rejection.

"Four months John," He complained, lifting a old battered violin in his hand, "It wasn't even exactly a subtle hint."

He's back! Sherlock Holmes is back!

Submit


	2. Chapter 2

_Sherlock Holmes is back! He is alive, he is innocent and he is not a fraud._

Submit

The word has spread like wildfire even though the amount of readers on John's blog was now excruciatingly small. Sherlock Holmes, by some amazing miracle, was alive and well. He wasn't a fraud and Moriarty was real.  
Overall this had made headlines on several newspapers, what they couldn't figure out was why the government had also come out to prove his innocence and assure the public that he was innocent and indeed, legitimate.  
Mycroft had stopped communicating with either John or Sherlock, not answering his phone. Lestrade had been bombarding Sherlock with cases but were turned down because he deemed them 'dull and obvious." Nothing had come from Donovan or Anderson, which was predictable. Molly had been acting like nothing had happened, John thought Molly might had been sad with the news before about Sherlock...dying, that she had shut down that part of her memories until now, until he was back.  
Mrs. Hudson on the other hand had been the most dramatic of the reactions. As soon as Sherlock walked inside complaining about having to settle for another violin, she fainted at his voice. Waking up only to faint again at the sight of him.  
John had been, obviously, the calmest of them all. Apart from an abrupt punch to Sherlock's face, which was now turning purple, John had calmed down temporarily.  
Now sitting on the couch with a cup of tea while Sherlock sat opposite him with his palms together under his chin.  
"Yeah, Sarah, I can't go to work for a while. Probably a month?" John was talking on his phone to Sarah, trying to dismiss work, as he knew he would need the break for some emotional and physical rest.

John had decided he needed sleep and some rest before anything else should happen. Sherlock respected his decision and went to sleep as well, glad that his things weren't gotten rid of.  
But now, in the morning with Mrs. Hudson hanging around in the flat and John making breakfast for the three of them. Sherlock sensed that somewhat awkwardness was hanging in the air.  
"I don't see why you couldn't have just came in." John said as he put the plate of eggs and bacon down in front of Sherlock. "I don't see why you had to wait for me to come out and see you."  
Sherlock looked at John, he sighed on the inside.  
"I don't know why you didn't tell us. Why you couldn't just have not jumped. Or maybe even a text Sherlock? They're not that hard to operate, just a simple message, hey I'm not dead. That would have been brilliant, so why did you wait three years to come back? Why did you jump at all?" John Shouted and slammed his plate down. Mrs. Hudson watched from the side with her hands to her mouth. She felt the same way, but she never would yell at him.  
"John." Sherlock didn't want to explain this, it was boring, it was not interesting, and it was three years ago.  
"I think Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft and me deserves an explanation. And it better be a good one." John has different ways of dealing with shock or stress. One of them is turning his attention to things he's suppose to be doing but he mocks them sarcastically and making loud noises while he was in the middle of it. He would also just drink tea, it helped too. But right now it was not the latter, and tea hasn't even come into John's mind yet.

Mrs. Hudson decided it would be better to leave the two alone and went down stairs. Sherlock watched as John attacked the bacon in front of him, an amused smirk came to his face.  
"Moriarty is not dead, obviously. He threatened to kill you, kill Mrs. Hudson, kill Lestrade, all my friends." Sherlock stopped himself from using apostrophes on the word friends; it was too early on his return for him to start offending his ''friends''.  
"I had to either kill myself or know you will all die."  
"Wait, what do you mean he's not dead?" John paused from his bacon munching and looked up.  
"I was disappointed with all the rifles, you'd think Moriarty would be more interesting but I guess..." Sherlock kept at it, he hasn't had a chance to talk like this in three years.  
"Sherlock, what do you mean he's not dead? I've just talked with Mycroft yesterday, they have his body, a bullet clean through his head." John put a hand up to pause him.  
"John, don't be naïve. The world's only consultant criminal isn't going to kill himself for the sake of the death of a consultant detective. Even if there was only one in the world. He got bored with watching me dance and so he faked his death to watch me die. I had to lay unnoticed for three years to make sure I don't pick up his attention again. Though I'm sure now that you have submitted your blog, he'll be on to me within minutes. This time it will be even worse than having to fake my own death." Sherlock stopped his blabbering and took interest in his food.  
"So you faked your own death?" John repeated him, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"No I came back to life like the lord, only three years later, of course I faked it John, don't expect me to explain, I like my privacy sometimes."  
"So, what about Moriarty's body."  
"It's like you're not even listening John," Sherlock complained, tucking into his eggs, "That body is not his, he didn't die on the rooftop, the body Lestrade found was not him. Only made to be very real and very much like his."  
"Do you mean all of this will happen again, all the killing because Moriarty needs you to distracted him?"  
"No, I'm trying not to raise his attention too much, though that would be unavoidable consider the amount of cases Lestrade would want me to do and my lovely brother would decide to talk to me eventually. Not to mention I can't stay inside shooting walls all day. He would be on my back soon, but maybe he would let me go this time, though I doubt it, but I don't want to fake my death again, three years away from this flat and keeping my smoking addiction on track by myself is not an easy thing to do. Not to mention time away from my blogger." Sherlock paused and smiled, it was not an easy thing for him to do, but it was one of the rare genuine smiles. Then he resumed to eating.  
"You also can't keep all the talking in I see." John stated, before standing up to make a cup of tea for himself.  
"John?" Sherlock put down his knife and fork to walk back to the small living room; he picked up his violin and the skull, each in each hand.  
"Sherlock?" John decided that if Sherlock faked his death for the sake of their lives, he should at least be thankful for his return. Thus why he stopped his outrage.  
"Was I a good friend?"  
"What?" John sat down with his cup of tea, and questioned back.  
"Was I a good friend?" Sherlock rarely repeated himself.  
"Why are you asking that in past tense?"  
"I mean in the three years I was away, did you remember me as a good friend?" Sherlock fumbled over the skull and put the violin down, sniffing the jawline.  
"Why?"  
"My room was left exactly the same with some contents moved in a box, yet the room was perfectly fine for rent and either Mrs. Hudson could not be bother to get another person to rent the room or you have stopped her trying several times. I'm thinking it's the latter since you kept my things as if you thought I was going to come back. You left the room the same, as most of the parents do either when their child moves out or when their child dies. My things here in the box most you haven't touched, all the science equipment because you have no interest. But my violin." Sherlock lifted his violin up in front of his face, balancing it horizontally to meet his eye level. "The bow has lost a few hairs, I blame that on you trying to play it but later giving up. But you did buy and change, if not horribly, the strings at least twice on the violin. The strings were also horrible quality. But I don't see any reason to change the strings unless you were going to learn to play, but if you did manage to try and learn the first thing would be how to change the strings and considering you didn't do even that magnificently, you were changing it to try and convince yourself that I was going to come back. Or else there would be no other use for the violin."  
Sherlock looked at John with a smirk, right now he was only thinking on one word, and that word was 'sentimental'.  
"And my skull," Sherlock picked up the skull, throwing it at John, who caught it with one hand. "I've obviously left you some habits and one of them was talking to myself. And you, John, did not want to become mad so you talked to my skull, like I did. There are splash marks of tea and scents of caffeine by its mouth and lower facial area. You must have put it next to you when you had drinks and you would talk to it because normal people don't actually like putting dead people's skulls next to them when they think or drink. But you do. And this couch." Sherlock stood up and sat down again, letting the creaks of the wooden legs emit through the room. "Evidently hasn't been sat on for a long time, and by a long time I mean three years. People do that, sentiment; they don't alter a thing that involved the dead because they think when they return it wouldn't be nice. So Doctor John Watson, did you remember me as a good friend in the three years I was gone?"

John stared at Sherlock, it was true, he did try to play the violin, he did talk to the skull, he never sat in that particular couch and he did hope everyday that he would come back.  
"I don't see what this has to do with remembering you as..."  
"John, people don't pick up habits from their supposedly dead friends unless they were either attracted to them or they were indeed a close friend."  
"I remembered you as a great friend," John quickly answered, "I realized how bored I was when you weren't there."  
"Obviously." Sherlock smiled. He stood up and pulled his scarf from behind the door.  
"Are you going somewhere?" John asked, picking up the plates.  
"I need better violin strings."

Mrs. Hudson just swallowed her portion of pills for the day; lately her hip has been giving her pains. But that was at the bottom of her list of things to worry about today, Sherlock was back. Which was a good thing, though it did nearly give her a heart attack. But she didn't mind, as long as she didn't have to go back to those three years spent with sadness nearly every day. You wouldn't think a smart-ass bloke that would uncover your secrets as he pleased would touch a lot of people's hearts, but he did.

John returned to his blog, as there was nothing else to do after the dishes.  
He found himself happy and content even if that means more body parts would appear in the fridge.  
Scrolling through the sudden explosion of questions that appeared overnight on his blog, the majority of them asked if the famous Sherlock Holmes and his blogger was going to return to seeking and solving cases.  
John laughed; he certainly wasn't going to let Sherlock shoot the walls all day. Nothing else was going to be able to occupy his mind, unless Sherlock decided to pursue his childhood dream and become a pirate.

_What about Moriarty? If Sherlock faked his own death, Moriarty the criminal genius could too. Should we be worried?_

Oh.  
That's a peculiar question. But reasonable.  
What would he say to that?  
John's fingers hovered over the keyboard, completely clueless.  
Maybe I should wait until Sherlock comes back.  
Why?  
John realized that he was relying on Sherlock as soon as he had come back to life. How did he make his own decisions in the past three years?  
But in the end he determined to wait, it wasn't like he was the consulting detective that knew everything and was definitely sure about it.

"Did you know about Donovan and Anderson?" Sherlock walked into the flat with a packet of new Obligato violin strings hours later.  
"What about them?" John looked up from his latest interest, books. Since there were so many that he hadn't touched when he moved in, some of the last three years were spent reading, and now he was reading Diary of Jack the ripper by Shirley Harrison.  
"Something short of a relationship and too much of friendship." Sherlock threw the packet into the box of his belongings and sat himself in his couch.  
"Is that what have you been doing all morning?" John laughed.  
"What?"  
"Gossiping."  
"I don't believe in gossip." Sherlock said after a pause. "Donovan's lipstick was incredibly patchy, the redness was uneven. Anderson, despite his obvious face and his much more lower IQ, has been receiving more floor scrubbing. He didn't even bother to clean up his pants, what was he thinking? Lipstick wouldn't stain or show up on my Brook Taverner Mens Delta single pleated jeans? Why was Donovan wearing lipstick anyway, her lips were already too big."  
"Sherlock. You wouldn't understand this." John put his book down; he knew he'd better stop Sherlock before he starts to go any further in to the topic of sexual relationships.  
"What do you mean?" Sherlock looked at him, his palms together under his chin.  
"Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door, receiving instantly both John and Sherlock's attention. "I think you've got fan mail or some thing, there's a package for you." Mrs. Hudson said and held out a small brown package. Long white string tied to a bow at the top.  
"Thank you Mrs. Hudson." John said after Sherlock stared at the box for about twenty seconds and took it form her.  
"Well don't spend all your time talking," Mrs. Hudson turned to leave. "You'd all need some rest as well."  
"Good night Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock called after her and took the package from John's hands.  
"Fan mail?" John prepared himself to go back to his book.  
"I was going to dismiss as that but no." Sherlock picked at the string tying the package together and untied it.  
"Mascara." He stated, looking at the faint black lines that decorated one end of the string while the rest was milky white.  
"So?" John put his book down; he wasn't going to get any quiet time now.  
Sherlock looked up at John, a light smirk came to his face and vanished almost instantly.  
"My dear blogger," he announced, "Some one sent me something to stock up the fridge."

John swallowed back nothing; someone sent Sherlock dead body parts? And that small?  
"Why?" what else could he ask?  
"Let's find out." Sherlock moved his attention to the package and uncovered it. To his delight, two eyeballs sat on top of a foam block inside a small box.  
"Eyeballs, it's only the second day of you coming back and people have already started mailing you eyeballs." John has given up and put his book back on the shelf.  
"No John, human eyeballs."  
He froze.  
"Moriarty?"  
"A case. John, better than anything."


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock has spent the last two minutes staring at the eyeballs sitting themselves on the foam. John has used this time to make himself tea and realized that he had missed this life, but the cut off limbs? Not so much.  
"John." Sherlock spoke finally, keeping his eyes at the eyeballs while they stared back.  
"Sherlock?" John walked over to the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in his hand.  
"Are you prepared to visit an eye doctor any time soon?" He said as he fished a pair of tweezers out of his pocket and brought them to one of the eyes and plucked a contact lens off.  
"I guess." John took a sip of his tea and handed Sherlock his coffee.  
"Thank you," Sherlock took over the cup, and plucked the other contact lens.  
"Where are you going?" John asked.  
"Lestrade, I think he will have something for me." Sherlock dropped the two contact lenses in a small plastic bag and handed them to John. "I need you to find out as much as you can about them."  
"Sure." John finished up his tea.

John didn't really need to go anywhere far away, he just went to work. There was an eye doctor there, no need for anywhere special. He was more scared of what people will say; surely they've seen the news, surely they all know about Sherlock coming back. What if they decided to start asking him questions?  
No.  
That wouldn't happen.  
The media just needed the attention; Sherlock was just another boost of economy for them, the buzz wouldn't last long before something else came to their views.  
He braced himself for what ever may happen and marched into the clinic, plastic bag in hand.  
"I hear you've got your detective back." Sarah walked up to him holding a clipboard with the day's work.  
"He's uh... not my detective. Just a friend." John smiled forcefully.  
"Hm." Sarah looked at him with a sarcastic tone in her voice, "I thought you weren't going to come to work, for about a month."  
"Here to see Andrew." John started his dismissal before Sarah could ask any more questions. "Need to ask him about contact lenses."

Sherlock made sure to make a comment about Anderson's late night and Donovan's patchy lipstick along with the crease lines on Anderson's jeans. Three years without insulting the two has made his senses more alert around them, pulling evidence straight off the air. Then again, it wasn't like he couldn't already do just that.  
"You have something for me." Sherlock didn't like circles, he spoke straight forward.  
"No I don't." Lestrade looked at him with amusement, something did come up, but it wasn't that important.  
"What?" Sherlock frowned.  
"Well, all I've got is a suicide."  
"You think we're not good enough." Donovan appeared in the doorway. "Freak."  
"Absolutely." Sherlock turned around with a smile. "And I see you didn't bother with a hair cut for the last...three months, three inches longer than before."  
"Well I'm leaving it to grow." Donovan nearly stomped her heels to the ground.  
Nearly.  
"I'm sure Anderson would appreciate that."  
Donovan marched out, shouting something about her privacy and her rights.  
"Suicide?" Sherlock turned his attention back.  
"I suppose you want the facts."  
"Obviously."  
"Scott Tripe, 32, male, married, no children. Found in a motel in Chelsea by a cleaner, she thought there was a weird smell coming from the room. Autopsy showed he died of antifreeze poisoning, bloke's been dead for 72 hours."  
"Ethylene Glycol." Sherlock muttered.  
"What?" Lestrade paused, looking up from the case file.  
"Nothing," Sherlock waved his hand in the air, "and that's a suicide?"  
"Well, we're not particularly worried about him, if he was then it might possibly be his wife."  
"His wife?"  
"Scott worked at a car repairs shop, he didn't turn up at work this morning so work called home, his wife wasn't there to pick up. We just sent down a team and they said the house was trashed and no one was there."  
"I assume the body is still at the motel."  
"Yep."  
"I assume you think the couple had a fight, the husband went out for the night and the wife injected him with antifreeze then packed up and went into hiding."  
"Do you see fault in that?" Lestrade had enjoyed the last three years without Sherlock telling him what he thought; now that he was back, he didn't want him to completely take over his cases again.  
"I need to go to the scene," Sherlock stated, and Lestrade knew there was no argument that could change his mind.

John felt his phone make a minor beep in his trousers pocket and excused himself from Andrew's talking.  
Layton Route, Chelsea Motor Inn, come when you're done with the lenses.  
-SH  
He groaned, Chelsea was at least two hours away, if he was lucky, an hour and a half.  
"Something wrong John?" Andrew looked at John, then at his watch. It was a busy day and he had only been able to squeeze John in for twenty minutes.  
"Uh no." John smiled at him, "Is that all you can tell me?"  
"Yep, my years of eye doctor experience tells me only that the lenses were proscribed for presbyopia and whoever they belonged to didn't take good care for them, leaving them on the eye for days. I'm surprised they didn't feel the irritation actually, it would have been extremely uncomfortable."  
"Right, thanks Andrew." John stood up to leave, pushing the chair back under the desk.  
"Anytime John," Andrew lifted his glasses. "Don't forget about us when you've got that detective and all those cases."  
"He's just a friend." John closed the bag up and prepared himself for a two-hour drive.

He couldn't believe he was going down to Chelsea in the middle of a Tuesday for a case with a pair of contact lenses that came from two severed eyeballs that was mailed to Sherlock in his pocket from this morning. Not even within twenty-four hours on Sherlock's return, the world has already decided to change and leave John with all the getting use to.

How long are you taking?  
-SH

It was the third text Sherlock has sent him, John couldn't care less, he was paying the cabbie the same anyway, might as well sit back when he can.

Sherlock had already looked through the crime scene three times, not that he needed the double or triple checking, John was just taking too long to get here. At least Anderson wasn't on this case.  
Despite the other police officers saying it was suicide and declared that they worried more about where the victim's wife should be, they didn't seem to supply any motive the victim might have had to kill himself.  
"Amateurs." He whispered again and stepped outside the room to see if John has arrived.  
He watched as a cab pulled up near the entrance of the motel and John stepped out and took three notes out of his wallet.  
"What am I here for?" John shoved the wallet back into his pocket and questioned Sherlock. He has just been in a cab for about an hour and forty five minutes going to Chelsea in the middle of the day for god know what and he was hungry and not particularly happy.  
"A murder scene." Sherlock turned to walk, "What did you find out about the contact lenses?"  
"Uh...not much." John felt the small plastic bag inside his left pocket.  
"Do tell." Sherlock opened the door to the motel room guiding John and himself in.  
John braced himself but still wasn't quite ready for the smell that blasted upon his face. A middle-aged man laid on the bed of the room, his clothes ruffled and his hair messed around his face. A pale-purpleness showed on his skin, suggesting poison.  
"Who's this?" John's speak was muffle by his sleeve, the smell was to overwhelming for him, but Sherlock seemed fine.  
"Doesn't matter, contact lenses."  
"Right um, prescribed for Presbyopia, and the owner didn't take good care of them, left them on for too long."  
"Wrong." Sherlock mumbled.  
"What?"  
"The owner did take good care of them, but he was murdered."  
"Well, I couldn't tell Andrew the lenses came from severed eyeballs that were mailed to you could I?" John raised his voice, nearly two hours in a car and no food can make a man grumpy. Several officers turned to look at them.  
"No of course, thank you John." Sherlock raised his hand to the dead man on the bed. "A second opinion, if you please."

John didn't really feel that he wanted to have a second opinion; Sherlock's view would have been enough. He looked at the dead man and felt sorry for him, he couldn't have been more than thirty-five, still a lot of time in front of him and he died like this, poisoned.  
All of John's hungry just took a hike and went away as soon as he bent down to greet another wave of rotten smell. The corpse would have been dead from around two to three days. He walked around the man, scanning him with his eyes but picking up only minor things.  
"Uh, died of poisoning, dead for two to three days. Fairly wealthy." He looked at Sherlock, satisfied with himself, but knowing it wouldn't last long.  
"Good." Sherlock stated, "Anymore?"  
"No. Sherlock, why don't you tell me?" John sensed the sarcasm, why was he here again? Not to give Sherlock his second opinions, no. Sherlock didn't need it, it doesn't help him.  
"Problem?" Sherlock frowned; there wasn't much difficulty in this.  
"Yes actually, Sherlock. You can't just waltz back into my life after three years of god knows what and the next day we're running around solving cases again. I had a life before this, now I had to dismiss my job. A month without sufficient income, and I'm bloody starving."  
"Tell you what, I'll buy tea." Sherlock smiled as if he thought he had solved the problem, but John knew he had no idea why he was angry. He really wanted to punch him then, but crime scene wasn't the right place.

Sherlock stopped smiling, it was making his cheeks ache. If John had nothing to say then he might as well start.  
"Scott Tripe, thirty-two. Married, no children, dead for seventy-four hours now. Ethylene Glycol poisoning, antifreeze. Lestrade says his wife is missing and if this were murder she would possibly be the one that killed him. Which is wrong. The clothing shows obvious physical activity before death occurred; slight bruising on the left wrist suggests needle injection of Ethylene Glycol. Smears of engine oil on the insides of the arms and under the shoes." Sherlock pointed to the pair of over worn sneakers laid by the bed, one upside down. "He had work the day before he and his wife had a fight. Minor burns around hands and scratch on left arm, domestic fight between the couple. But not the burns, that's from work. There's a piece of hair in his hand, far too long to be his, black hair, but by the odd color and unnatural feel it has been dyed. So female. But his wife has short, brown hair, doesn't match up. Then it's the murderers. Another hair stuck in the button of his shirt, short, brown. It's his wife's. All those hours ironing and cleaning his clothes and her hair ends up in there. A patch of clear skin on the back of the head, possible brain surgery before, probably three years ago. There's just one thing." Sherlock paused, he looked over to John. "I can't figure out what the physical activity could possibly be, the sweat stains from his shirt was too much for hard work but too little from stress."

John nearly laughed, he made sure to stop himself, this was a crime scene and a man has been dead for two days with his wife missing. Laughing now was not the time or place.  
"You got me here from central London because you couldn't figure out what this bloke did before he died." John only now got a grasp of how little knowledge Sherlock really had of the social world.  
"It's important John." Sherlock frowned again.  
"Have you thought about possible sexual intercourse?" John giggled a little on the inside. He couldn't help it.  
"John, again, I'm flattered but this is not the time and I'm certainly not capable."  
"I mean Scott, could it be sex that he was involved in before he died."  
"Of course." Sherlock sensed his cheeks getting warmer.

Mrs. Hudson did not expect another package by her door this evening; she also didn't expect the boys coming back as late as nine.  
"I hope you've got your own breakfast because I'm not your housekeeper boys." She called to them as they stepped out of the cab and handed Sherlock the package.  
"No need Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock took over the package and pulled out two notes for the cabbie. "Thank you."  
John paid the cabbie and gave Mrs. Hudson the plastic bag he was carrying the entire ride home.  
"Got you dinner instead Mrs. Hudson." He announced.  
"Oh good, thanks dear." Mrs. Hudson quickly pulled them inside and closed the door, the cold air outside was hurting her hip.

"Should I be scared?" John settled himself into his couch, not bothering with a book this time.  
"Why?" Sherlock put the package down by his feet and lifted his violin, picking at the lines.  
"If that package has more limbs in it, I'm going to have to ask you to buy a separate fridge."  
"You shouldn't be scared John." Sherlock played a few lines; just a few hours before he found out he was getting a bit rusty. Scott Tripe was murdered; his murderer however was very smart. And Sherlock had not been able to pick up other points, the murderer however, he was sure, was female.  
"You should be excited." He corrected John and dropped his violin down, now the package.

John watched as Sherlock slowly opened the package, he braced himself for the worse. What would happen now? Tongues? Teeth?

A pair of ears sat in the box, sitting on identical foam blocks as the eyes did.

"Right." John decided as a smirk rose to Sherlock's lips. "You're buying a fridge."


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock laughed. It was an unhealthy laugh, a mixture of excitement and underlying joy pointed all at the pair of cut off ears that sat in the box.  
"Oh god." John sighed, why was this all happening?  
"I think we have a serial killer in our hands John." Sherlock said after a while.  
"In your hands maybe." John didn't want to get back in this; he had a life before, one that he could control.  
"John?" Sherlock didn't see why John wasn't excited with this, a case, and a serial killer obviously. Why wasn't John excited, pure luck has given him this after three years of nothing.  
"You can't fix this just by buying dinner you know." John picked up Diary of Jack the Ripper again; he was determined not to become involved in this anymore.  
"Female, mature, about thirty-five to thirty-eight." Sherlock has shoved the ears underneath the microscope.  
"Are you even listening?"  
"John, can you hand me the package." Sherlock raised one arm and turned it towards John, palm open.  
"No, I can't."  
Sherlock looked up from his microscope, he was confused, and that only happens rarely.  
"I can't deal with this Sherlock," John almost yelled, but he kept his voice down, Mrs. Hudson didn't need any more trouble.  
"What can't you deal with?" Sherlock was completely clueless, and he didn't like it.  
"I had three years, Sherlock, three years of questioning everything, blaming it on everyone and anyone and myself. Three years of constant depression, three years without real laughter. While you were alive the whole time, the whole time. You didn't leave me anything saying or hinting that you could be alive still, you said nothing!" John had yelled, it was pretty loud too.

Sherlock kept his eyesight at John.  
I've disappointed him.  
I've saved him.  
I've hurt him.  
He heard Mrs. Hudson's footsteps on the stairs.  
"Go back to sleep Mrs. Hudson." John called without moving his eyes from Sherlock.  
"John, I had to jump, I had to save you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. I hoped you would understand I stayed away for three years for you and their benefit."  
"That's just it Sherlock," John started towards his room. He really didn't want to flip out at him, but he has kept all of this in for three yeas, he's not holding it in anymore. "That's just it, you don't give a damn about emotional benefit do you? You don't understand anything about sadness or happiness or anything."  
And it was true, he didn't understand. All those years of seeing and observing the facts and truth, Sherlock has decided to put himself inside a hard iron bubble to avoid the weakness of emotions. It was easier for him to see to the cases, to avoid remembering birthdays and made him stronger and more independent than others.  
But he was shit with friends.  
He wouldn't understand their anger when he openly discussed their ways and life and sometimes their appearance, he wasn't judgmental, just bored enough to talk of anything and everything. So eventually he stopped having friends, growing further away from his brother and spent most of his time around the stupid police.  
John had been the only person that he has come this close to all his life, and he knew that he wasn't going to lose him.  
Not this friend.  
Not his blogger.  
Not his assistant.  
And certainly not his doctor.  
He was not loosing him.  
"No I don't." He admitted. It was a bit weird hearing the words coming out of his lips. He had never been negative about himself before.  
Sherlock quickly walked up to John to stop him.  
How did they do it on the television again?  
He bent forward and slipped his arms around John's shoulders.

"Sherlock?" John questioned this consultant detective's actions; it was not like him at all. In some ways it made him feel better, because Sherlock only did this because he did care, and was sorry.  
"I'm sorry John." Sherlock tightened his hug around John, his legs awkwardly straight behind him.  
"What are you doing?"  
"I'm not sure if this is the correct procedure, but I think this is a hug."  
"Okay." John laughed, only quietly; he wasn't going to let Sherlock know he forgave him now. "You could probably stop now."  
"Yes, right." Sherlock quickly pulled away and returned to his microscope. "I suspect you're going to bed now."  
"Yes." John picked up Diary of Jack the Ripper again.  
"Can you hand me the package?" Sherlock held his arm out again.  
John rolled his eyes. Back where we started.  
"Sure." He decided not to go into the argument again, he was tired.  
Sherlock thanked John and took the package from him.  
John fell asleep that night with Sherlock's smell lingering around his sweater.

Sherlock only took interest in the package after he finished observing the pair of ears. He shook the brown package, and opened it up again.  
The foam sat inside the box, clean. Sherlock reached his slender fingers in to pull it out.

I must be cruel,  
Only to be kind.  
Thus bad begins,  
And worse remains behind.

The words were written on the back of the foam block.  
Sherlock found himself smiling as he stood up and reached for the first package. Hoping for another note.  
But it was clear.  
The first package had nothing written on the back while the second one did.  
"There's more." Sherlock whispered to himself and put his palms together under his chin, thinking.

Donovan walked through the slim door that lead to DCI Lestrade's office, she wanted a word with him, but instead saw him asleep with his legs up on the desk.  
She sighed and knocked two fingers on the door, then again, louder.  
But Lestrade wasn't waking up.  
Donovan lifted her case file and threw it at him. Hitting him square on the face.  
"Wake up, sir." She said sarcastically, leaning into the doorway.  
Lestrade snorted and opened his right eye, then the left.  
"Donovan?"  
"You're not really just going to let the freak take this case are you?"  
"I might have to," Lestrade grunted and pushed himself up into sitting position. "In fact I might have to left him take all the cases."  
"So what do we do?" Donovan felt empty, she had three years of peace and quiet and work with the occasional murder and one serial killer, now that Sherlock was back, she feels completely useless.  
"Lay back and do the small things." Lestrade really couldn't be bothered, it was eleven thirty, even if it wasn't extremely late, he enjoyed his sleep.  
"Like what? Making coffee? I got this job because I wanted to go out there and catch the bad people of the community, not sit around following a psychopath." Donovan decided maybe she'd try to get transferred to another unit, in another division. But she had made her place in this one and that wasn't an easy thing to do when you're a woman in the police force.  
"He's a high-functioning sociopath." Lestrade called after her as she walked out and threw the case file back with his remaining energy; it had been a while since he slept without work on his mind.

Mrs. Hudson thought it would be a good idea to check on the boys this morning, she didn't know what to expect to happen after all that shouting last night. She remembered her own husband, then quickly dismissed the thought.  
"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson opened the door quietly and poked her head through. Honestly, she was expecting the room trashed, books thrown everywhere and either John or Sherlock's belongings packed up ready to leave. But to her mixed joy and horror the only thing out of the ordinary was a pair of ears that sat on the coffee table.  
"Have you fixed your little domestic?" She walked in and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.  
Sherlock flinched in his seat.  
When?  
"What?" He asked to no one in particular.  
"Have you fixed your little domestic dear?" Mrs. Hudson repeated again.  
"What? Oh. Yes. What time is it Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock stood up and stretched his arms; he forgot how long he had sat there.  
"About eight in the morning dear, did you have a late night?"  
"No," Sherlock walked away, he thought he should have a shower. "Sleep doesn't help me think."

John woke up only to change his jumper, then he realized it was already eight thirty.  
"Christ." He quickly jumped out of bed, then fell back in remembering he didn't have work.  
"Breakfast." John decided and pulled his jacket on.  
He walked mindlessly to the table, not noticing the microscope or the beaker beside him.  
"Good morning John." Sherlock's unique deep voice startled him in his half asleep state and he turned around to see Sherlock standing in the doorway with a towel over his head.  
"Morning." He replied sheepishly and put his head onto his arms, dropping down to the table.  
"My brother should be contacting you soon." Sherlock sat himself down opposite John.  
"Why?"  
"The last time he decided to drop contact for two days was when daddy died, he doesn't last any longer than that."  
"Oh." John was fully awake now, the mention of death brought on his senses.  
"He's been putting on weight."  
"Who?"  
"Mycroft."  
"Yes, yes he has," John chuckled, but thought it wasn't the right topic.  
Sherlock stood up from the table and pulled the second brown package from the mantelpiece.  
"Did you figure out something?" John asked, he hadn't thought about the case since last night.  
"No, I saw." Sherlock tossed the package to John.  
"Don't you mean observe?" John pondered.  
Sherlock spread his hands out, inviting John to see.

Written on the back of the foam block in black pen were the words.

I must be cruel,  
Only to be kind.  
Thus bad begins,  
And worse remains behind.

"What's that?" John thought the words rang a bell, but not sure which one.  
"Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act three scene four." Sherlock answered.  
"So…it's a message." John took a stab in the dark.  
"No, it's a phrase, it's a quote, its meaning is obviously. It's a hint. But the eyes, the ears, they're a message, a riddle." Sherlock tossed the package at his couch.  
"Okay what does it mean?"  
"There's going to be more murders." Sherlock's lips curled up into a grin.  
"I didn't realize there was a murder."  
"Yesterday John, god you people don't remember anything." Sherlock grumbled and turned his back to John and walked to the kitchen, making himself coffee.  
"What? The man in the motel?" John frowned at Sherlock, it was a simple death. Wasn't it?  
"Yes the man in the motel." Sherlock spooned sugar into his cup.  
"How do you know it's a serial killer?"  
"Come one John, antifreeze poisoning, that would have hurt, kidney failure, blood clots, blindness, abdominal pains. And after the physical act of sexual intercourse, why would anyone do that? His wife is also missing, probably dead as well, in fact these eyeballs and ears might be hers."  
"I think you're taking a pretty wild guess here." John pointed it out, but immediately regretted it.  
"Am I John? Quotes, riddles. Serial killers all leave these, they want to make something out of their murders, they want to fool the audience, they want to make themselves smarter then the average human. And they kill more than once."  
"Okay." John didn't want an argument, he just woke up a few minutes ago, and it was no time to be arguing with the only consultant detective in the world.

Mrs. Hudson thought it was quite rude to be disturbed at nine in the morning when she was doing her washing, but they didn't know.  
Opening the door, she saw Detective Inspector Lestrade stood at the other side with his hands resting on his belt.  
"Morning Mrs. Hudson, I've come to see Sherlock." Lestrade smiled at her.  
"Sure come in dear, he's up in the flat, haven't slept all night. I hope you've got something to keep him going."  
"I can bet on that."  
The two marched up the stairs and Mrs. Hudson retreated halfway, she felt like she still needed a bit more sleep.  
Lestrade knocked on the door, waiting.  
"You better have something good." Sherlock's voice called from inside and Lestrade let himself in.  
"Good for you," Lestrade muttered, "Not good for the society."  
"Is there a difference?" Sherlock questioned, Lestrade could see him now. His hair wet and the blue scarf tied loosely around his neck, a navy blue robe under the scarf. He looked like a druggie.  
"You're not the society." Lestrade put his hands to his hips.  
"You need me for the society." Sherlock lifted his cup and took a sip of his coffee.  
"Yes I do, new case, will you come?"  
"Depends."  
"Another bloke, he was found dangling off the edge of a building this morning, yelling down at the crowd gather underneath him, then had a seizure and fell off and died."  
"That's good?" Sherlock frowned, it wasn't much interesting.  
"Also antifreeze poisoning, we found."  
"Loose Anderson and your officers," Sherlock decided. "Be there in five."


	5. Chapter 5

John didn't feel like going to a crime scene first thing in the morning, it usually ruins his appetite, especially if it was another death by falling off a building.  
"What makes you so sure that this is the work of the serial killer?" John questioned Sherlock in the cab.  
"We haven't got anything else to do, have you?" Sherlock asked back, his hair was still wet and matted, John couldn't take him seriously.  
"I guess not."  
"Still," Sherlock said as he looked out the window, "Two murders in two days, both antifreeze poisoning. I don't call that a coincidence." He attempted to draw something in the air with his hands but John wasn't looking.  
"I expect breakfast after this." John grumbled.  
"Why?" Sherlock turned to him, why would anyone want breakfast? This was far too interesting.  
"Because unlike you, Sherlock, we humans need to eat."  
"Do I not fall into the category of human?" Sherlock appeared hurt, but John knew it was amusing him.  
"You don't fall into the category of people."

Donovan was annoyed that Sherlock did take the case; she also wondered how John still stayed with him. There were so many other things he could do and places he could be, but instead he's here with a psychopath.  
He's a high-functioning sociopath, she corrected herself, then rolled her eyes.  
"Whatever." She muttered under her breath. Talking to yourself was the first sign of madness, and she wasn't going to be like Sherlock.  
"Aren't you going to come look at the crime scene?" Lestrade appeared beside her.  
"Nope, Sherlock can handle it."  
Lestrade could sense the anger in her voice, but he decided to leave her alone. Sherlock alone could take over all their cases and finish them in one day, personally, Lestrade wouldn't mind if he did.  
Donovan guessed she was more angry at Anderson, she could see the clues of their little 'event' and it didn't really take a freak to figure that out.

Mycroft stared at his phone in his lap, it has been two days, he didn't even need the surveillance to tell him his brother was back or what he was doing. The media was getting such a buzz off this news there were headlines everyday, he was sure there was even a group of paparazzi that followed Sherlock especially. He made a mental note to remind himself to get them fired.  
Should he contact John soon?  
Probably.

"Goodbye." Sherlock said as they stepped out of the cab and started pulling off his gloves.  
"What?" John paid the cabbie and turned around, what did Sherlock mean?  
"All the cameras on all the stores around the buildings we went pass turned, I presume Mycroft has been wanting to speak with you."  
"Uh." John turned around and pivoted himself; the cameras were indeed fixed onto him. "Right, I'll just go wait for him then."  
"Could you possibly check up on history of the victim." Sherlock turned to walk.  
"With Mycroft? How would he know?"  
"He's knows where you are and what you do every second of the day, I don't think this would be much of a challenge for him."  
"Right." John nodded, "See you back here then?"  
"No." Sherlock turned around one last time. "Baker street." And made his way to the crime scene.

Glen had never been much successful at anything. He wasn't fit, he wasn't rich, he wasn't smart. Heck, he wasn't even healthy.  
Never been healthy.  
Sick since he was born, umbilical cord around the neck, oxygen deprivation. He was lucky to survive that.  
And he was lucky now to get a girlfriend.  
With his crooked nose and untamed wild eyebrows.  
But it was his books.  
Oh he was a writer, a published author in fact. He was so proud, in all the last ten years, now that he was thirty-eight, the last ten year of constant sickness. And he had been lucky enough to write a good enough book between the sicknesses to be published.  
And his girlfriend saw his talent, every one likes to be complimented, and Glen Ospoe especially did. And his girlfriend certainly did believe in his talent, she even bought him a typewriter, just for his sudden creative sparks.  
Yes. Glen was a lucky guy.

But not tonight.  
Glen was not a lucky man tonight.  
He had decided to get himself drunk and out of his girlfriend's reach in the other side of London, he definitely can't remember how, he was too drunk.  
And he remembered why he never had beer before. He was the kind to shag anything that moves when he was drunk.  
But he did remember calling a cab before his urges got to his head and headed back to his home, but when he reached the street end he couldn't contain it anymore.  
He saw a call girl.

Timothy was apparently rich, apparently. But Sherlock didn't think so, the only genuine jewelry on him was his wedding ring, and even that wasn't cared for properly. He wasn't married unhappily though, he neglected his family.  
"So?" Lestrade questioned, his arms crossed.  
"I've never seen you without decent sleep Detective Inspector, what happened last night?" Sherlock turned the question around.  
"You don't need to ask me, you already know, just tell me about this bloke." Lestrade crossed his arms further, he didn't need Sherlock to remind him.  
"Did your wife come around?" Sherlock smiled apologetically.  
"Sherlock!"  
"Sorry, ex wife."  
"Look, why are you being such an asshole today?"  
"Bored." Sherlock turned his attention to Timothy, dead on the ground.  
His shirt black hair matted and greased, face to the ground with his arms beside him.  
"Shame." Lestrade muttered. "Westwood."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"Victim's mid thirty's, fell from the apartment building from Lilestone Street, probably the third window, but more likely the roof considering his shirt and the cuts on his hands. Mild infection on the left arm, caused before death. Married twice, neglecting his current wife and children. He's in need of money, loosing his job, smoker." Sherlock paused to slide his hand over the nicotine patches he stuck on this morning. "Actually," He looked up. "Could you get Anderson to check something?"  
"You what?" Lestrade bent down, wondering if he heard right.  
"Get him to check if this man has had the physical act of sexual intercourse before death."  
"Why?"  
"Because his death and the first was connected, the only clues now were Ethylene glycol poisoning and maybe sexual intercourse before death occurred to both of them." Sherlock sighed, why are ordinary people so stupid?  
"I'm sorry?"  
"Antifreeze poisoning, didn't you learn anything in school?" Sherlock marched away, then paused. "His shoes."  
"What?" Lestrade shouted.  
"His shoes, where's his shoes?"  
"Anderson took them." Lestrade shrugged.

"Do you just automatically switch on your sibling rivalry switch when Sherlock is around?" John questioned loudly as he stepped into the abandoned warehouse where he and Mycroft first met, he hasn't seen him yet, but he knew he was listening.  
"What would give you that idea?" Mycroft appeared, umbrella resting on his shoulder.  
"You didn't have to stop the whole texting thing, it's not like any of this kidnapping impresses or makes me scared. You're wasting your time."  
Mycroft hung his head, not defeated, but tired.  
"Aren't you glad he's back?" John asked.  
"Angry." Mycroft could feel his own tears swelling, but he would never allow that to happen.  
"Look, if all you wanted to tell me was that you're angry then I'm going."  
Mycroft just looked at him, he didn't know what he felt.  
Yes, he was angry, he was glad Sherlock was back. But he felt more angered about him faking his death than anything else.  
"Why don't you drop this whole angry and power play thing once in a while?" John walked up closer to Mycroft. "It can't be that hard."  
Mycroft straightened himself up, he would not crumble, not here, not today.  
"Could you inform me on him?"  
"Why?" John thought this was ridiculous, two brothers not even talking to each other unless they had to. "Why can't you just talk to him? You've done it before."  
"Could you inform me on him?" Mycroft asked again, he didn't like the state he was in, this state of plead and complete unknown. It was new, and that made him uneasy.  
"Sure." John gave up on the whole pretend-psychiatrist stance. He would never understand the Holmes brothers. "Then could you tell me about the victim this morning?"  
"I assume Sherlock has asked for information."  
"You assumed right."  
"I've already got the file." Mycroft produced a black file with the name 'Timothy Brank' branded over it.  
"Thanks." John took over the file, surprised that Mycroft knew.  
"I'll be waiting for your texts." Mycroft walked off, into the dark end of the warehouse, still playing his part of this power play, still holding on. His umbrella clicking on the cement.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door to a very annoyed Sherlock holding a pair of black shiny leather shoes.  
"Oh dear." She gasped. "What's wrong now Sherlock." Letting him in, she shut the door behind him.  
"Anderson." Sherlock grunted and placed the shoes on the coffee table.  
"What did that bad officer do now?" Mrs. Hudson asked from the bottom of the stairs.  
"He ruined evidence right from the crime scene!" Sherlock spoke loudly, Mrs. Hudson took the cue and returned to her own room, it was never a good idea to be near Sherlock when he was angry, especially if it was Anderson. "Oh dear." She muttered to herself as John entered the front door.  
"I'd be careful dear," she pointed towards upstairs, "he's a bit jumpy."  
"Uh thanks Mrs. Hudson." John smiled and hurried up.

Sherlock stared at the shoes opposite him sitting on the coffee table, his eyebrows frowning.  
"What's this?" John asked as he walked in the flat.  
"I already told you."  
"No Sherlock, I was with Mycroft, I'm back now, so what's this." John corrected him and sat down, putting the file of Timothy Brank beside the shoes.  
"The victim's shoes, Anderson was stupid enough to try and clean them, wiped away some of the evidence that could have told me where Timothy was but no he had to clean them."  
"Right, so why have you got them if they don't tell you anything?" John needed breakfast, but seems like Sherlock wasn't going to finish anytime soon. He stood up and decided on tea.  
"Because." Sherlock lifted the left shoe and showed John the sole of the shoe; up on it was written in white paint.

One small step for me.  
One giant leap for mankind.

"Okay." John looked away from his tea.  
"Nail polish." Sherlock stated.  
"Right, so Timothy Brank, according to Mycroft. Timothy Brank dangling from the roof of a building and fell because he had a seizure, died on impact and now there is a message written on his left shoe with white nail polish."  
"Perfect description, I was hoping for something I didn't know." Sherlock complained.  
"Are we safe?"  
"What?" Sherlock turned his head to John, this was completely irrelevant.  
"If you are here, where's Moriarty?" John explained.  
"Is that important?" Sherlock questioned.  
"Yeah, I, personally don't enjoy running around trying to solve some games to stop people from being blown up."  
"You never solve them anyway."  
"That's not the point," John raised his voice, then softened. "The point is, are the public in danger?"  
"The public are always in danger." Sherlock said, it was the most common knowledge he would think that everyone knows, everyone is always in danger.  
"Okay, I'm not having this conversation right now, just go back to your shoes." John gave up, right now tea has priority.

"Another package Sherlock, you've got to stop these fanmails." Mrs. Hudson appeared through the doorway and handed a brown package to Sherlock before returning.  
John also deserted his tea, this was interesting.  
"What do think is in this one?" John wondered out loud.  
"I have no idea." Sherlock admitted. "I hope you didn't throw the eyes and ears away."  
"No I didn't, they're in the fridge." John hurried, "Just open it."

Sherlock picked at the string holding the package together and untied it, a box fell out and he opened the lid.  
"Brilliant!" Sherlock exclaimed as John rushed to the kitchen, trying not to vomit. "Right, did I tell you you're buying a separate fridge?"  
"Come one John, isn't this interesting?" Sherlock Marveled at the objects sitting in the box.  
"No." John answered and pulled his phone out, ready t report to Mycroft about this as Sherlock smiled smugly at the pair of cut off lips sitting in the box, the foam stained with blood.

Again he muttered under his breath.  
"Brilliant!"


	6. Chapter 6

Lestrade finally returned to his beloved desk and put his feet up on the table after his visit to the crime scene, the evidence left was enough for Sherlock, then that was enough for him.  
But apparently it was not enough for Donovan or Anderson.  
"What's the problem then?"  
Donovan and Anderson both crossed their arms, their boss was definitely not seeing things their way, and why would he?  
"The problem is Sherlock always coming in to our cases." Donovan decided to put her foot down theoretically, in real life, she made a light tap with the heel of her shoe.  
"And ruins things for our own investigation." Anderson finished for her, though he didn't quite catch the annoyed look Donovan passed to him.  
"Now hang on." Lestrade put his hand in front of him, pausing Anderson in the middle of his fiddling. "From what I've heard, you were the one ruining evidence."  
"I was going to make it easier to identify evidence!" Anderson wasn't great at arguments, so he simply raised his voice. Not so much to loose his job, but his voice was definitely raised.  
"You made it easier to destroy evidence," Lestrade didn't want to deal with this, this wasn't the first time in the five years he has known Sherlock that his officers wanted him out, but Sherlock was the more efficient, and less costly. "If this was the argument you two want to start again then get out of here, I don't have time for this and you two could be doing something useful for once."

John accepted the fact that Sherlock wasn't going to get breakfast himself so he made his own, Sherlock's concentration was soaked up on the new package.  
"A bit of food won't hurt." John commented while he started his breakfast. "Neither would a bit of sleep."  
Sherlock sighed in annoyance, he had remembered the last three years, no one did really take their time to care about him, or notice for that matter. He guessed he should be grateful for John's care.  
"A bit of silence would also be greatly appreciated right now thank you." Sherlock said simply, he didn't want to upset John, but three years of nothing can make him very agitated.  
John paused from his food to watch Sherlock stand up and gather paper from around the house, stuffing pens in his pockets.  
"Back to the drawing broad?" John asked.  
"Nope." Sherlock spread the papers across the coffee table, pushing the shoes and setting the lips on the floor. "Starting at the drawing board."

Anderson made his way to the morgue, he didn't want to be here, but then again, no one else did.  
It was that stupid Sherlock.  
And his hold over Lestrade, just because Lestrade was lazy enough to let Sherlock have his way with the cases.  
"Detective Inspector Lestrade sent me here," Anderson showed his badge to the nurse on duty, Molly. "I need to inspect the body of the late Timothy Brank." He had no idea why he was talking this formally, but it made him feel better, as if releasing his sarcasm to the world.  
"Sure, he's in here." Molly opened the door and led him to a nearby table, "He's all yours." She left with a quick smile, slamming the door behind her as she left.  
"Stupid Sherlock Holmes." Anderson pulled the sheets back and prepared to do the task he was sent here to do, check if this gentleman has had the act of sexual intercourse before death. "I better get a raise for this."

Bubbles left work early that day, the kids have been far too annoying today. He didn't know why he still had this job.  
Because it paid well.  
It paid better than all the other jobs he had.  
But Bubbles didn't want this job.  
And of course, Bubbles was a clown.  
And a great Clown.  
Apparently.  
According to his wife he was a great clown.  
How did he even afford his house?  
His car?  
And their wedding?  
Bubbles didn't remember, he didn't want to either.  
Bubbles has been so caught up in depression lately he didn't care about anything, or wanted anything. Except for the feel of cash in his hands did he remember happiness for a short time, using all of it to buy vodka and drugs, abusing his own health to feel his demented happiness.  
Bubbles didn't even care when his wife left him, taking all he had, well, all he had left.  
But that was when Bubbles decided he didn't want live anymore, he didn't want to have to live with having to work with stupid children anymore, he didn't want to be living on crack until the next paycheck came.  
Bubbles was going to live and have fun for one last night, and he didn't need his wife to achieve that.

Thank you, Dr Watson.  
-MH

John reached into his pocket and pulled his phone out, Mycroft has replied already.  
"Are you going to explain this to your brother?" John asked as he walked out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee in his hand.  
Sherlock said nothing, if he heard John, he didn't show it.  
"Sherlock." John said again.  
"No thanks, food slows me down." Sherlock waved a hand in the air, his eyes fixed onto his papers.  
"Sherlock! Are you going to ever explain this to your brother?" John asked for the last time.  
"What?" Sherlock looked back at John, "Explain what?"  
"You faking your death, are you ever going to talk to him about this?"  
"Why should I?" Sherlock saw no point in it, his brother was smart enough, would have worked it out by now.  
"Because he cares, because we all care!" John fought to keep the anger out of his voice and took a sip of his coffee, "Why do you not understand this?"  
"John," Sherlock sighed, "John, it is not important, my brother is fully able to make sense of the whole event and he probably already has. All he's going to do now is just watch over me, I know him, he's probably going to put more money into surveillance for me than any other government objective now because of me faking my death." Sherlock ruffle his hands through his hair, "You're already doing just that."  
"I am." John nodded.  
"Clearly." Sherlock turned his attention back to the lines and scribbles he drew on the papers and became silent again.

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes as she saw John stomp out into the rainy afternoon, he was going to buy groceries, but Mrs. Hudson could tell he and Sherlock had a fight again.  
"Oh dear." She sighed to herself and returned to her dusting, "Much different in my days."

John successfully returned from the supermarkets without shouting at the self-serving cashier, but he was still annoyed at Sherlock.  
He carried the bag of groceries in his right arm and attempted to open the door to 221b, after failing three times, he called for Mrs. Hudson.  
"Did you boys fight again?" She asked as she opened the door to John.  
"No Mrs. Hudson," John shuffled through the doorway and walked slowly up the stairs.  
"It's not decent." She murmured to her self.  
John grunted and pushed through the door to the flat.  
"Who was it?"  
"Who was what?" John didn't expect Sherlock to speak this soon, but it seemed like he wanted something.  
"The phone rang half an hour ago, didn't you pick it up?"  
"No I was getting the groceries, you obviously didn't observe that I was gone."  
"Did you get milk?" Sherlock ignored the mockery.  
"Yes. What's this about a phone call?" John set the bags down, "Where's your phone?"  
"Mantelpiece."

Log – All calls – Missed calls

Lestrade 11:24am

"Lestrade called you." John searched through Sherlock's phone.  
"What about?" Sherlock questioned.  
"Hang on." John dialed the number back and waited for a response.  
"Sherlock, Christ, do you know how long I've been calling you?" Lestrade's annoyed voice came through after five beeps.  
"Actually, John here, Sherlock is too lazy to phone back so I'm doing it for him." John eyed Sherlock, "What is it?"  
"You can tell the good detective that Timothy got lucky before he passed away, but Anderson isn't very happy with him."  
"Right, thanks Lestrade."  
"Is Sherlock going to take the case?"  
"He's busy on it right now."  
"Too busy to answer the phone huh?"  
"Yeah."

"Timothy Brank had sexual intercourse before he died." John hung up and turned back to Sherlock.  
"Good."  
"Yeah great." John set Sherlock's phone down in front of him on the coffee table.  
Sherlock set his pens and shuffled the papers around.  
"What do you think of this case?" Sherlock asked John, his palms under his chin, eyes staring steady.  
"I think too many people have died, for no good reason that we know of." John sat down next to Sherlock on the couch, shoving him a bit to the right.  
"Is this the doctor inside you talking?" Sherlock sighed, this was why emotions were a burden, and this was why ordinary people are boring.  
"Would it help if I cared." Sherlock didn't bother to question, so he turned the statement rhetorical. "Besides, we know the reason."  
"We do?"  
"We do," Sherlock pointed to the papers he has been writing on, "The two victims, Scott Tripe and Timothy Brank both die of Ethylene Glycol poisoning, antifreeze, both had the act of sexual intercourse before death. Both male, both had family, married at least once with children. What can that tell us?"  
John couldn't help notice the why Sherlock stuttered lightly every time the words 'sexual intercourse' escaped his mouth, it seemed funny to him, that a grown man should be afraid of it.  
"The murderer is female?" John guessed, though he had thought so from the beginning.  
"The murderer is female, yes, the murderer is also intelligent. How could she not? Two days and I still haven't got her, not the best, but intelligent. She injected the victims with Ethylene Glycol because she wanted them to suffer, the seizures, the organ failures, the headaches. She has something against them, not just males though, specifically these people. They've both got families with children, and considering they both had sexual intercourse before death, I think this murderer has something against cheating males."  
"What about Scott's wife?" John nodded with Sherlock's explanation, "What if she killed Scott and Timothy's death was another case entirely."  
"I've ran through DNA tests with the hair follicle in Scott's shirt and the ears that were mailed to me John, they were the same, Scott's wife was killed shortly after Scott himself. Which means the killer were the same person and they were killed both because they cheated on their family and wives."  
"What about the message?" John pointed to the shoes. "All the messages, The Shakespeare, the quotes."  
"Shakespeare, Scott was the first, the murderer believes that it must be done for the world to be better, for his wife to know the truth. The quote, small step for me, giant leap for mankind. Timothy wasn't important, he wasn't even wealthy. For him the only mankind he could entitle himself to was his family. He walked off the building; his life insurance could probably give his family thousands, a leap in their financial state. The murderer planned all of this."  
"What about the eyes, ears and the lips?" John slowly processed all the information Sherlock was giving him.  
"What do you think?" Sherlock wanted a second opinion.  
"I thought the murderer was giving us all the senses of the victim, but it's not that is it?" John rubbed his chin, "that would be too…"  
"Meaningless." Sherlock finished the sentence for him.  
"Meaningless?" John didn't understand.  
"What would be the point of giving us all five senses? To make a face? No, she gave us precisely the three and she's not going to give us any more, the eyes, the ears and the lips, no more. What do you think she's trying to tell us?"  
"Is there a phrase for it?"  
"Indeed there is John, Ancient Japanese, do you know the three wise monkeys?"  
"The three wise monkeys?"  
"See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil."  
"So the murderer is telling us that…Scott's wife was innocent?" John hoped this was what Sherlock was after.  
"The murderer is telling us that Scott's wife is innocent, yes. She's also telling us that his wife wasn't suppose to be part of the whole list of cheating husbands to kill."  
"So something happened, and she had to be killed."  
"Obviously."  
"Well you go on with your deductions," John stretched his arms out behind him. "I've got normal things to do."

Sherlock didn't want to go to sleep, but there was nothing else to do. All the questions were untangled, now he was bored. He couldn't help but realize how much he needed John in his life, apart from his average brain and his constant rows against him. John was really the only other person that understood him and accepted him apart from his brother. He knew the three years weren't harsh on him only, John had doubts too.

Sherlock shifted himself slightly and reached his phone in his pocket, it was a text from Mycroft.

Care to explain?  
-MH

"Oh Brother dear." Sherlock laughed to himself. "You're growing rusty."


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft didn't plan to visit his brother this morning, but as his distracted mind wondered, he found himself in front of their flat.  
"I don't remember this on the schedule." He turned back to Anthea.  
"No." She smiled and turned back to her phone.  
Mycroft just shook his head and walked in.  
"You know how you're suppose to let your senses have a rest, that's why people sleep at night." Mycroft could hear John's voice from downstairs.  
"Not my brother Doctor Watson." He answered for Sherlock aloud as he stepped through the door, portraying a wary smile on his face.

John heard the footsteps before he saw Mycroft, and in and instant he brought his hand to his face.  
"Not my brother Doctor Watson." Mycroft remarked as he appeared.  
"Okay, I don't need the two of you going on like this." John crossed his arms in front of him, wanting to retreat to his room. "There's not enough normal in this flat already."  
John knew if he went back now Sherlock would be left on his own with their sibling issues.  
"And of course, you know why I'm here."  
John noticed yet another smile from Mycroft, and that's already one too many.  
"Nope, not a clue," Sherlock pulled a sad face, "But the diet is unfortunate."  
John watched at the two brothers, one stood and the other sitting, both staring at each other, deducing.

Sherlock gave a smug smile and stood up, he grabbed his violin and returned to his seat, giving both John and Mycroft a fake, overwhelming smile.  
"Come on Sherlock," John is now complaining, and Sherlock knew exactly why. But he didn't think alike with John, the three years he's been away, John kind of got a head start in understanding and communicating with his brother.  
"I believe the case is taking a long time as well." Mycroft quickly added before answering a call.  
Sherlock raised his eyebrows in a sarcastic look of agreement, brought the violin to his shoulder and started an aggressive chorus of God Save the Queen, loud enough for Mrs. Hudson to hear downstairs.  
"Excuse me," Mycroft put the receiving end of his mobile in his palm and turned back to John, "I better be leaving now, thank you." Then Sherlock, "And you. Dear brother." All three of them were conscious to the two-second pause between, but Sherlock avoided any further conversation and speed up his second verse.

Anthea was disappointed to See Mycroft out of the flat so soon; it was less than two minutes.  
"Now, what's really on the schedule?" Mycroft questioned her, a hint of sadness and regret in his voice.  
Anthea opened the car door for him with a smile, though they both knew it never helped.  
"On with our day then." Mycroft shuffled himself in the passenger seat while Anthea rolled her eyes behind his back.  
"Right sir," Anthea slammed the door and walked to the back. "Your day."

"You better have something good." Sherlock demanded through the phone as soon as he saw Lestrade's number on the screen.  
John put his mug down, Sherlock was clearly getting excited, no breakfast for him now. Feeling a slight shiver through his spine as another little smirk rose to Sherlock's lips, John treated himself to one more sip.  
"Where?" He asked as soon as Sherlock dropped his arm.  
"Other side of London!" Sherlock pulled his coat from the door and was ready to march out. "Coming?"  
"Well," John really didn't want to go, he really just wanted to stay at home and finish his tea. Who knew when he would be able to get back to his lovely flat again once he's out of the door this time? "Sure."  
"Come on," Sherlock bolted down the stairs. "You can text Mycroft in the cab."  
John grunted in light retort and put his mug down, shouting his goodbyes to Mrs. Hudson.

John fiddled with his phone in his hand and thought about texting Mycroft, he had enough cameras on them, surely a simple text wouldn't make a difference.  
"Maybe you should get back to the clinic."  
"Maybe." John agreed with Sherlock, though he didn't need the money, he's realizing that all these crime scenes aren't exactly what he wants to wake up to every morning. He enjoyed breakfast more than a big helping of uncertainty.  
"Seems like the three years didn't teach you anything." John sighed, but before he realized, he already said it out loud. Just a simple thought, escaping.  
"Problem?" Sherlock replied strangely calm with a hint of hurt in his voice.  
"I suppose you are not just going to stop with the cases are you?" John looked away from the views of London rushing by to face Sherlock. "I suppose you're never just going to spend a day reading."  
Sherlock studied John's face, more wrinkles than he remembered. Tear stains, lips chapped. He felt a small irritation around his eyes, and turned his head back.  
"I learnt the feeling of losing a friend." It was only a whisper, but enough for John to feel a faint ache in his chest. "And how to get him back".

Lestrade was already on his third cup of latte, and was about to try for a mocha when the stinking Detective finally showed up by the apartment building.  
"Took you long enough." He said and took another sip out of his near empty cup, "Bloke's in there, hope you didn't have breakfast this morning, it's a bit bloody."  
"No, food slows him down, I wouldn't mind some though." John walked up as Sherlock went into the building. "Thanks Greg."  
The walk up the stairs to the third floor was silent and dense and seemed to take forever, though Sherlock was excited for another crime scene, John was more mauling over what Sherlock said in the cab. While the two eventually set foot in the second apartment on the third floor, Lestrade went for his fourth cup, and ushered Donovan upstairs.

Glen sat at his desk, his arms by the sides of his head. His head rested peacefully on his antique typewriter, He looked restful and happy, which wasn't something that could be said about his girlfriend shivering at the door. Sherlock has been more than happy for the last ten minutes, snooping around the apartment, glaring at everything and anything, taking in all the evidence.  
John waited patiently next to Donovan, ready to take down notes.  
"This is Gabriel," Donovan introduced the girlfriend of the deceased to John, "Don't let that freak intimidate her." She left quickly down the stairs.  
"Hello," John held out a hand for the lovely brunette standing in-front of him, but she was too busy brushing at her tears.  
"Where's his book." Sherlock interrupted them and questioned Gabriel.  
"What?" Gabriel wiped away the last few tears and looked up to this stranger, she didn't like the way he talk, or the way he walked around the place.  
"His book, come on you know about his book." Sherlock held a hand up, paused, and ran to another room.  
"Sorry about that, he's not very sympathetic." John sighed, someday Sherlock would have to learn how to deal with people, they weren't all as patient as him.  
"Was that who she meant by 'freak'?"  
"She didn't mean it in a bad way." John defended back, it was bad enough Sherlock didn't leave a great first impression; Donovan didn't make it any better. Though at the back of his mind, John questioned himself why he minded what others say about Sherlock.

Gabriel was more than upset, she could feel an overwhelming emptiness growing in her stomach, and she wasn't hungry. Glen was dead, it took a while for that to sink in but that was the truth, her beloved boyfriend was dead. And now there's police all over the apartment, these two detectives barging in. It increased her sense of insecurity. The blonde man next to her was at least sympathetic, or looking like it. But the tall dark haired one was rude.  
"Okay Gabriel, when did you find him?" The tall man ran out of the bedroom, making a straight walk to her, she found herself intimidated.  
"This…this morning." Gabriel choked back her tears as the scene played in her head all over again, the body cold to the touch, and the typewriter covered in blood. "Who are you?"  
"Sherlock Holmes and this is Doctor John Watson."  
"I mean why are you here?" Gabriel despised the grin Sherlock wore on his face, her boyfriend was dead, and he's standing here smiling.  
"We are in charge of this case." John answered.  
"Yes, a few questions, why were you away from Glen last night?" Sherlock kept the stupid smile on his face.  
"We were celebrating the start of his new book down at this club, Glen's a writer and…"  
"Yes, published author of one novel, we know all that, why were you away from him last night." Sherlock interrupted her again.  
"He was drunk and ran out of the club, I thought he just needed some fresh air, but when I ran out to find him, he wasn't there. I called his phone and the apartment then I had to wait for a cab to take me back here and now he's dead." Gabriel felt like she wasn't there, she could hear the words tumbling out of her mouth, but herself wasn't there, she felt numb.

John watched and stepped forward after all of this was noted down.  
"Alright okay Sherlock, is that all you need?" John questioned sternly, Sherlock nodded lightly. "Okay, thank you Gabriel, I'm sorry Sherlock is being an ass, I think we'll have information soon for you alright?" John led Gabriel back to Donovan down the stairs, throwing his best be-more-thoughtful look at Sherlock.

Sherlock ignored John's glare, he knew it wasn't very 'human' of him, but Gabriel was obviously a very talkative woman and he simply had no time.  
He turned his attention back to the corpse sitting by his desk, face to the side, a blood trail from his lips and eyes.  
"Ethylene Glycol." He whispered to himself and lifted up Glen's head. A blood pool was gathered on the typewriter, the whole thing splattered with red. He couldn't help but let a sigh through his lips. "Beautiful."  
The type writer held a piece of paper, drenched and soften by blood, the top displayed a sentence. Written in black ink on top of red smudges.

There is nothing to writing.  
All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

Ernest Hemingway

Sherlock chuckled, this was brilliance. Killing cheating men and linking their deaths to famous quotes, this was indeed a great case. This was proper planning; this was almost Moriarty, but only almost. He made his way downstairs and out of the building, welcoming that burst of fresh air with a broad smile.  
"Christmas is early this year." Lestrade shouted over to him, Sherlock could see that he was already on his fifth cup of coffee. "Got you another one." Lestrade waved his phone mindlessly in the air. "Another bloke two miles down the road, drug overdose, traces of antifreeze in his system."  
"Brilliant." Sherlock walked off to find a cab, John joined him shortly after promising information to Gabriel.

"You called me an ass." Sherlock said to John as soon as the cab doors closed, even if he was being serious, John couldn't help think of him as a five year old about to argue.  
"You were being an ass."  
"No I wasn't!" Sherlock argued back.  
"And a bloody big arse." John couldn't help but laugh, and he didn't stop even after Sherlock joined him.  
Lestrade was more than puzzled when they walked out of the cab laughing to the next crime scene.

"Bubbles the clown," Lestrade pointed to the thin graying body lying in the bathtub, money laid around the floor. "Died approximately around midnight."  
"How about midnight exactly," Sherlock pulled the shower curtain back, on the rough concrete wall, written in blood, was another quote.

Nobody likes a clown at midnight.  
Steven King.

"I think I've seen enough, we can close this case in two days and we just need one small tweak in the facts." Sherlock drew the curtains back across.  
"What's that then?" Lestrade asked, his coffee was getting cold, and he needed an excuse to get another one.  
"Tell the press that Glen Ospoe was still alive and he's now getting treatment at the hospital."  
"Is she going to come?" John could see what Sherlock was planning.  
"What? Who's this she? Why?" Lestrade had no idea.  
"You'll see." Sherlock turned out the building, John quick on his heels. "I'll have your quoting murderer in a couple of days."

John watched as the cab pulled over at Baker Street, he thanked the driver and handed him a fifty while Sherlock stepped out.  
"Breakfast?" Sherlock stopped in front of Speedy's and looked to John.  
"Lunch." John replied, he was starving.  
The two shuffled in and sat down.

Mrs. Hudson was just about to go out for another bottle of her pills, there was only two left and her hip was getting awful. She was already at the door when the boys finally returned.  
"No need to go out Mrs. Hudson, I've got your pills." Sherlock was through the door in a second, he handed Mrs. Hudson an orange pill bottle.  
"Thank you dear, just in time." Mrs. Hudson smiled and quickly pulled John in behind Sherlock. "It's getting colder and colder out, have you two had lunch yet?"  
"Yes Mrs. Hudson, no need to worry about us." John gave her a reassuring smile before turning upstairs.

"Do you really think she'll come?" John made himself another cup of tea and a black coffee with two sugars for Sherlock.  
"Of course."  
"Why?" John set the mug in-front of Sherlock and began on his tea.  
"Hatred."  
"These conversations would go along a lot smoothly if you do explain as you go,"  
"If she believes Glen to still be alive, she will come to the hospital and finish killing him."  
"Because she's not going to give any of the cheating men a second chance?"  
"Clearly." Sherlock took his coffee.  
"So you don't think Gabriel had anything to do with Glen?"  
"No, how could she? Shivering the whole time, the words were flowing out of her mouth with no energy, you saw the woman, she's going to need psychologist sessions week after week."  
"What's with the book you were going on about."  
"Glen Ospoe, I read his book. Tainted Lungs. A book about recovery and achievement. There was minimal medical references and information in it, I found it pointless."  
"So what now." John's tea mug was emptying fast.  
"We wait."


	8. Chapter 8

"Shouldn't we be doing something?" John questioned Sherlock over dinner; it has been another day since the press went crazy over the miracle survivor of the antifreeze serial killer, and they have been doing nothing but watching telly.  
"We are doing something." Sherlock had his head rest on his arms on the table as he has for the whole day.  
"What then."  
"Waiting." Sherlock stood himself up and walked over to the couch, falling lightly onto it.  
John reminded himself that he didn't have to revolve his life around Sherlock's cases and returned to his dinner, but impatience bugged at his thoughts.

"I don't understand why you two are still bugging me about this, alright?" Lestrade had already had enough yesterday with Sherlock's strange requests with the press and been to two crime scenes, he didn't need his two officers on his ass about Sherlock. "What do you two idiots have against him?"  
"Us two 'idiots' don't think that if that freak jumped off that hospital, bloody and all, and now he's alive. There's probably nothing normal about him." Anderson's voice went higher than normal.  
"Why is he still taking our cases?" Donovan crossed her arms in front of her chest.  
"He's still taking 'your' cases because you two aren't as quick as him." Lestrade spun his chair around, refusing to argue with them.  
"Then why don't you just fire us." Donovan was angry, she let the question slip out, now she's regretting, what if she does lose her job?  
"Sally?!" Lestrade turned his chair back, a look of annoyance on his face. "If you don't want your regular paychecks then I'll have them."  
Donovan's face stiffened, she felt like she was targeted. She didn't need this, it was fourteen minutes until the night shift took over and she just wanted to go home and have a long bath followed by a mug of chamomile tea.  
"Fine, fine." She held her hands up, and walked out of Lestrade's office.  
"You finished?" Lestrade turned to Anderson.  
"Yeah sure," Anderson started to turn around. "Sure."  
"Good, hey can you get me another cup." Lestrade put his paper cup down among the six others on his desk.  
"Yeah yeah."  
"Latte thanks."  
"Yeah."

"Detective inspector Lestrade?" Molly looked to the bottom of her list, there was a note written in distinctive handwriting signed off with the initials SH.  
"Yep, Molly." Lestrade stepped forward from a crowd of patients, "Did Sherlock give you the heads up?"  
"I believe this is what he means by it yes." Molly turned her list of jobs over to show Lestrade the scribbles on the bottom.  
"What does that even say, geez, does that say prepare?" Lestrade squinted his eyes and bent down staring at the scribbles.  
"Prepare the body, yeah. He wanted us to put the body in a hospital ward and wait for anyone suspicious." Molly ushered a polite smile.  
"And you got all of that from his writing?"  
"No, um, he called, earlier."  
"Right so what am I here for?"  
"Well, the body's already in the ward, I think Sherlock wanted you to keep watch of the visitors, for a call girl apparently."  
"A call girl?"  
"Yep. Or a teacher."  
"A teacher? What has that got to do with this?"  
"Well, whatever it is, you're looking for it." Molly instinctively put a tick beside the scribbles.

"You should call your sister." Sherlock had his cup of coffee in front of him. John turned to him, surprised.  
"Why."  
Sherlock just buried his face in his hands. "You know why."  
And John did, he felt this phone in his pocket and thought about it, then dismissed the thought.  
"Later." John tried to picture Harriet's face, but he couldn't, small glimpses flare up, but never a full image. He felt a pang of shame well up in his stomach. His own sister, he has been avoiding her for the last 5 years of his life. And maybe, he thinks, just maybe I need to work things out with my family as well as Sherlock needs to with his brother.

"John?" Harriet's voice came through the phone, surprised. "John, is that you?"  
"Harry, I…um hey." John stammered through his end of the phone. "Hey."  
"John Hamish Watson." Harriet seemed more excited than angry. "Where have you been the last five years?"  
"Sorry Harry, I…I just never thought."  
"Never tried, well than you know what this calls for."  
"Yes, I'm sorry Harriet, things have been…wild."  
"I watch the news John, and you never thought to come to your sister."  
"I know, sorry."  
"That's it, come for lunch tomorrow, you can apologize to my face."  
"Right." John clicked off, a warm feeling squeezed into his heart.  
"Should have done that earlier." Sherlock commented next to him, it was another day, and no news from Lestrade.  
"Maybe," John waddled off to the kitchen, after a cuppa, "Maybe you should call Mycroft."  
Sherlock managed a chuckle before a lingering smirk.  
"I'm serious," John returned with a long black, lately, John has become increasingly pro at making drinks unbelievably fast. "You should call your brother."  
"And I think Anderson is a genius," Sherlock held back laughter bubbling at the back of his throat.  
John lifted his arms up, ready to explain to Sherlock the importance of family before he realized that it was not going to work what so ever.  
"I am not going to have this conversation right now," John returned to his room, switching his thinking from the Holmes brother's family state to his own, and what he should wear tomorrow to lunch.

Mrs. Hudson caught John walking downstairs in a suit.  
"John, where are you going in that suit?"  
"Uh, I'm going to have lunch with Harry." John shifted uncomfortably in his suit, it was a bit bigger than he imagined.  
"I thought you were going to stand in court for something, John, you shouldn't be going like this to your sisters. What are you trying to do? Expand the distance between you two, No John Watson, you are going to go back in your flat and change." Mrs. Hudson pushed John back up the stairs.  
"Okay Mrs. Hudson, okay."

Sherlock decided that if there was nothing else to do, he wasn't just going to sit here and be bored for the rest of the afternoon. With John gone to his sister's for lunch, Sherlock was quite alone in his flat, the silence was horrid. He pulled himself up and got dressed in a light cyan shirt, pulling a white coat over.  
It was day three of waiting, and frankly, Glen Ospoe doesn't smell very nice in hospital right now, but Molly has made his room especially colder.  
Sherlock wasn't going just sit around; Lestrade wasn't 100% reliable in the whole working division.

Lestrade had his feet up on the shelf in the security office with a large pack of cinnamon donuts by his side. He was watching out for call girls and teachers, but still confused about why.  
Lestrade downed his fourth cup of latte today, and watched the screen as a tall Doctor walked into Glen's hospital room, his doctor's coat flowed behind him.  
"Sherlock?" Lestrade pulled his legs off the shelf and pushed closer to the screen, "What are you doing here?"  
Another rush of press walked through to the glass separating them from Glen's weakening body stuffed in a hospital bed.  
A middle aged woman shuffled through the crowd and pushed in-front of Sherlock, she seemed to be talking to him.

Officers, Back doctor's room, now!  
This is her.

-SH

Lestrade jumped at the text alert and pulled his phone out. And immediately ran out, calling to his men out side.

John was more than happy to be reunited with his sister, and was pleased that she has taken over control of her alcohol problems. Harriet has also made up with Clara, which was the highlight of the day. The two seemed like long married couples, which was the other good news. Harry and Clara are getting married soon, John was to be Harry's best man, though he wanted to walk her down the aisle, she insisted she was the man in her relationship.  
John excused himself from his sister's table, a call was coming through his phone, and there was no doubt that it was Sherlock.  
"Sherlock?" John pressed the phone to his ear.  
"John, St Bart's, right now, I need my trusty blogger with me."  
"Sherlock give me a fair enough reason, I'm with my sister and I won't just leave for any stupid reason.  
"We've got her."  
"Wait," John felt his eyelids shot up, and brought them down again manually. "You mean the murderer?"  
"St Bart's. Come on."  
John heard the end tone and let that beep resonate through the edge of his thinking and snapped his phone shut.  
"Ugh, Harry, I'm so sorry about this but I've got to go." John felt himself turn red in his shirt, he couldn't believe he's hearing himself say this to his sister. "You know the ugh… the detective I work with, um, I've got to go to the hospital."  
"John, I'm suspicious, you're ditching your sister for a man." Harriet laughed playfully, Clara chuckled by her arm.  
"Harry, don't you start this too. Please."  
"I'm serious big brother, you've stayed single the three years he was away, you've not tried to contact anyone, you've been staying away from any women that has shown any interest in you."  
"Harriet, we haven't even talked in the last five years, how do you even know these things."  
"John, there's the press, they've been writing about you ever since. Every one of them mentioned you as confirmed bachelor, I'm thinking you just need to realize."  
"Harriet, I'm so sorry I haven't tried to contact you for the last five years, I'm sorry that I had to leave this early. But if you really want to continue this conversation, call me. Sorry, I need to go." John smiled apologetically and made his way to the door, while he closed it behind him, the two were still laughing.

Molly stood in front of the hospital, her hair flowed in the windy day so wildly even five hair pins couldn't hold together. A cab pulled up in front of the hospital and John stepped out.  
"Hello John." Molly smiled "Sherlock's up there, just follow the trail of police and you should find him."  
"Thanks Molly." John smiled back.  
Molly noticed the side glance John gave to the pavement in front of the hospital, she felt a small shiver up her spine and remembered the red blood again, soaking the pavement. But John must have had a more vivid memory than Molly, because he stood still in front of the building for a solid thirty seconds before going in.

John knocked on the door to the doctor's office, Sherlock opened it for him and pulled him through the door with haste.  
"Good to see you John, could have been quicker." Sherlock was dressed in a white robe, which struck to John as odd, but then again, he must have perfect reason.  
"Yes, probably. Is she here?" John was more interested in the presence of the murderer than his lateness.  
"Just getting started."  
John glanced around the room, a woman was sitting in a chair in the center of the room, she seemed calm and collected. Though her hair wasn't the dyed black John expected, it was a light blonde.

Sherlock had a smirk on his face, he was about to unleash the deductions he had being keeping in and he was more than excited. He watched as John pulled out his notepad and a pencil, ready to take notes.  
"Now, Ms. Candry, five murders in five days, two in the first. Must have taken a lot of planning." Sherlock began his rant, excited like a little boy. "But than again it's not that hard with your occupation is it?"  
Micha Candry stayed calm, she's not even surprised.  
"A call girl, all you need to do is ask the right questions, sleep with the cheating men and then inject them with Ethylene Glycol. An easy task, not hard. I don't even want the reason, your dad, a cheating ex-boyfriend. I don't care. It's just a meaningless motive in this case, but I'm impressed. Scott Tripe, Audrey Tripe, Timothy Brank, Glen Ospoe and Bubbles the clown. But that's the beauty of it isn't it?" Sherlock was pacing circles around Micha. "With the quotes and the phrases, no one suspects the call girl, the whores on the street. No one suspects them to be dangerous, smart even. That's the beauty of it, isn't it?"  
John jotted the notes down on his pad, rapidly running out of room.  
"Scott Tripe, must have been easy to kill, except when his wife followed him you panicked. You killed her too, must have been crying when you did it, tear stains were all over the ears and the lips. But you felt like you were going back on your cause, your twisted little kill-all-the-cheating-men list because you killed one of the wives. Anyways, you still went on, four more. Before the press told you that Glen was still alive."  
Micha twitched her nose, slight annoyance stirred in her eyes.  
"And you came," Sherlock bent down to the purse she carried with her, dug around and pulled out a syringe. "With another dose of antifreeze in your bag because you can't go on with the list if one of them weren't dead."  
Lestrade stared at Sherlock; he still couldn't believe how he knew all this.  
"Now, I wasn't interested in this or knew who you were until the first package came. Eyeballs, the presentation of the package was nice, milky white string around the brown paper. But cheap mascara was on one end, who would have cheap mascara, not secretaries, not normal jobs unless you were running low. But the clumps on the mascara are what gave you away, clumps with foundation and smelt like tar. That kind of excessive mascara usage and thickness of the clumps? Call girl, clearly."  
John felt an 'amazing' trying to escape his lips, and he let it. Sherlock couldn't have had much of an audience in the last three years,  
"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Lestrade step forward, is she wasn't going to defend herself than he was going to take Sherlock's word for it.  
"Quoth the raven." Micha whispered, and stood up. Officers stepped in and slapped her cuffs on.  
"Quoth the raven?" John turned to Sherlock, waiting for an answer.  
"Nevermore."


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock watched as Lestrade marched Micha out, her blonde hair rested limp on her shoulders. The colour dull and blemished from repeated colour dying, every footstep firm on her inch high heels. He felt a laugh bubbling from his throat and kept it in until Lestrade and the officers left the room.  
John shuffled in his shirt; it suddenly felt colder in the room. He pushed his notes into his pocket, thinking about the next submission of his blog. A visible smirk was still on Sherlock's face, he seemed more than content with himself.

Mrs Hudson has just finished dinner, the wind was blowing ghastly outside, she was just wondering where the boys were when she heard the front door unlock. She got up from her couch and dusted her blouse.  
"John?" Mrs Hudson walked up to her door way, hoping that John was back from his sisters, though honestly, it was a very late time to be returning from lunch.  
"Hello Mrs Hudson." John's cheerful voice came before him, Sherlock was one step ahead of him and was already up the stairs.  
"Oh you're both back, another case then?"  
"Yes, all done now, you should be reading about it tomorrow."  
"Should have covered up a bit more John, absolutely howling out there, the wind." Mrs Hudson began to turn around.  
"Yes, realised a bit late, I'm afraid." John marched up the stairs and Mrs Hudson returned to her knitting, glad her boys weren't out there in the cold anymore.

"Well then," John sat down next to the roaring fire, a cup of tea in his hand. "Go on."  
"What?" Sherlock pulled his coat off, hung it on the coat rack, and joined his blogger by the fire.  
"You were holding back on your deductions, there were more theory than facts, you had a lot more evidence." John lifted his mug up, savouring the comforting smell of his tea.  
"You noticed." Sherlock put his palms together. It made him happy, knowing that John understood him.  
"Yeah, I did. Do you want to finish it?" John started on his tea.  
"The cut off sensory organs, first mistake. The cuts were too clean, too quick, but they weren't professional. Indicates mercy and regret." Sherlock paused, John would have questions.  
"Mercy and regret?"  
"The cuts were fast, and not made from rage, Micha Candry didn't want Scott's wife to suffer, even if she was dead. The whole thing with Audrey was a mistake on Micha's part, she already felt regret about killing her, but she wanted a statement to say that Audrey wasn't meant to be caught up in all the evil. She respected Audrey, mercy and regret."  
"Brilliant."  
"That meant the killer didn't have anything against females, but something against males, specifically cheating males. Audrey's contacts prescribed for presbyopia, an illness that occurs in the more mature population. You've seen Scott's gold chains on his corpse, married for money. But Audrey was years older than Scott, better motive for him to have an affair, in this case, a call girl."  
"Wait, wait." John pulled out his notes, this was going on his blog. "Okay, fantastic, go on."  
"I feel like you're putting me on display."  
"What do you mean?" John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock.  
"I mean every bit of my deductions is going on your blog," Sherlock seemed hurt.  
"And? You never seemed to mind" John was still writing.  
"No, I just feel like a feature in your blog, no other uses."  
"Sherlock, you are the blog, basically, more important, you're my best friend. Why are you being so childish all of a sudden?" John stopped writing; this has never been a problem before.  
"No reason, anyway." Sherlock raised his hand in dismissal. "All the others were killed in the same way, Ethylene Glycol injected in the arms. The touch with the quotes, that was beautiful. She used her job as a shield, no one would suspect her, no one would suspect a call girl running around killing her customers and leaving intelligent notes behind. When I was in the hospital, that wasn't the first time she's been there, I think she was there numerous times before, but none of the doctors would let her in to see the victim. She's coming back every day to see if she can find a loophole in the doctor's schedules to get up close to Glen, to finish the kill. Lestrade never picked her out. By the quality of her hair, she probably dyed it every day to avoid people noticing." Sherlock propped himself up by the dying fire. "That should be enough for your blog."  
"Now wait a minute Sherlock." John put his notes back in his pocket. "What's the problem?"  
"Nothing." Sherlock retreated to the table.  
"No, Sherlock, what's the problem? You're acting like a child!"  
"John, the way I've lived in the last 3 years wasn't like before. It'll take some time for you to get use to." Sherlock held his palms together.  
"Is that why you've cut your deductions shorter?"  
"I've had to adapt with the people I had to live with, it was not all that glamorous, but I lived on and now I'm trying to turn myself back to before." Sherlock sounded as if he was holding back tears. "I'm afraid you might not understand, but I've just grown colder from comfort."  
"No, you're not alone Sherlock," John watched the fire die out, hissing. "We're on the same boat here. You're my best friend, and you know you're not just here for my blog entries. You don't know the last three years I've had to live through, Sherlock, we're the same." John felt his eyes ache, this was a long day, and he felt like it was never going to end.  
Sherlock didn't reply, the silence stretched. John watched the embers fly, sighing. He stood up and walked back to his room, pausing in the doorway, John looked back.  
"You should probably get some sleep."  
Sherlock looked up and watched as John waddled his way to his room, shutting the door behind him. He felt genuine pain in his chest, it scared him, the fact that John was hurt along with him. Because in the very deep depths of his mind, Sherlock knew he needed John, he needed him for himself to be sane. For himself to have hope, though he doesn't believe in faith or hope.  
Sherlock returned to his room, he didn't want to think about it anymore. He just wanted to retreat into his own boring world of waiting for the next interesting case.

John had woken up earlier than he wanted to, he dawdled around the kitchen for a half hour before it was finally 6 and made himself a cup of coffee. He let the creamy aroma flow throughout the room before finally taking a sip. Sherlock laid sleeping on the couch, by that time his snore was loud enough to stop anyone's train of thought.  
As his cup finally emptied, John felt a call through his phone.  
"Hello." John lowers his voice instinctive, Sherlock stirred on the couch and went back to sleep.  
"Morning Johnny." Harriet's cheerful voice boomed through the other end of the phone, it was a nice change from the saddening, weary voice that she left in his mailbox in the last few years.  
"Harry we have talked about this, you can't call me Johnny." John let out a chuckle; it was nice to reconnect with his sister again.  
"And we haven't talked in a while Johnny."  
"Why are you up so early anyway?" John reached for his cup, and stood up for a refill.  
"Clara wants to pick out wedding dresses and she starts early. Now come on, tell me about your detective." Harriet's voice carried no weight, as if there was no stress in her life and she was a hundred percent happy.  
"Harriet, is this important, really? At six in the morning? Shouldn't you be picking out wedding dresses with Clara?" John watched his cup fill up again with the black liquid.  
"John you're trying to change the conversation, are you hearing yourself? Come on, tell me about this Sherlock."  
"Fine, fine, I know you're not going to quit until I tell you" John walked back to his desk and placed the mug in front of him, watching the steam rise out. "What do you want to know?"  
"Tell me about him." Harriet's voice carried a smirk.  
"Uh," John blew out a breath. "He's a consulting detective, the only one in the world. He's intelligent, um, tall. What else do you want to hear?  
"What else, anything." Harriet chirped on the other end, excited like a little kid..  
"He's my friend, best friend actually." John heard a squirm on the other end of the phone and rolled his eyes. "He disregards furniture, food, and life unless something interesting came up. His hair is stupidly long, he doesn't understand people's emotions, he thinks normal people are all average and he is more superior. He can be a dick all the time, he can fake his own death."  
"And? What else?"  
"And he is a loud snorer when he decides to sleep."  
"Johnny!" Harriet shrieked. "How do you know he's a snorer?"  
"I'm surprised you can't hear it in the background, he's been going at it for a while now." John turned his head back, looking at Sherlock. His curly hair felled around his face, the paleness of his skin against his dark hair had a wild contrast. John felt a sigh escaping his lips.  
"John? Are you still there?"  
"What? Uh, yes Harry, still here." John turned back, and began with his second cup of coffee.  
"I think you like this detective John," John sensed no playfulness in Harriet's voice, she was being as serious as she could. "I think you do but you just haven't thought about it."  
"Harriet, I'm sorry, but that's not the case." John felt tired of trying to defend himself from this, and from his own sister?  
"John, look at him, right now, look at him." Harriet was using her little sister voice, and god knows John can't deny that.  
"Alright, Okay." John turned back again, Sherlock was mumbling lightly, still asleep. John instinctively brought his hand up and covered his mouth, afraid he might wake him.  
"Now John Hamish Watson, I want you to find your pulse!" John almost laughed when Harriet used his whole name, this was it, little sister's serious now.  
He put two fingers to his left wrist, waiting.  
And waiting.  
And he counted.

Then he stopped.  
"Harry, I'm gonna have to call you back." John slowly lowered his phone. "Sorry."  
Pulse.  
It scared him.  
Pulse, and again.  
It frightened him almost. But he felt something in his chest loosen..  
Pulse, and again and again and again.  
John found his eyes wondering around Sherlock's features on his face.  
"No." John declared quietly to himself and the quiet flat of 221B. "No."

Sherlock finally woke up an hour later, John was just starting on his breakfast after asking Mrs Hudson to join them, but was turned down.  
"Good morning." John was halfway through his first cup of tea.  
"More like afternoon." Sherlock sat down in front of his friend and stretched out his long limbs. John lifted his arm and looked at his watch, it was seven thirty, hardly even noon yet.  
"What do you mean?" John wasn't ready for riddles this early in the day.  
"I've been awake for some time.." Sherlock looked up from table and his gaze fell onto John. "For a long time, really."  
"And you left me to make breakfast, thank you." John held his tea with both hands, warming them.  
"Well then, let me make a deduction." Sherlock held out him hand towards John.  
"What then?" John's cup of tea was emptying fast.  
"Hand, if you could." Sherlock stretched his hand out more. John gave him a questioning look and put his hand lightly in Sherlock's.  
"What now?" John raised his cup to his mouth again, cheeks rapidly getting redder.  
"You're the doctor John, what do your experiences tell you?" Sherlock held a knowing smirk, it made John feel like he was being made fun of.  
"Okay, enough deductions." John stood up with his cup.  
"John." Sherlock pressed on, for the last three years he had pondered on this one question, and what he heard this morning and what he felt now has answered it perfectly. "John, you must understand."  
"Sherlock I don't have time from this." John put his plate in the sink and emptied his mug.  
"John, John." Sherlock put his arms to John's shoulders, as John tried to shrivel back to retreat, Sherlock had to push him against the sink to finally stop him. "John listen."  
"Sherlock," John put his arms between them, waving them madly.

This isn't working, John's still denying, why? Sherlock stopped pushing and instead pulled John into a tight hug until John finally stopped squirming.  
"Sherlock, have we talked about personal space?" John muffled from under Sherlock's coat. "Because it exists, and you are invading mine right now."  
"John, tell me what you feel." Sherlock still held onto him, "No arguing, just what you feel, John. Please."  
"Sherlock, really I don't…"  
"John, please."  
John sighed.  
"Heartbeat accelerating, pupils dilating, breath quickening. I think I've explained enough, can I have my personal space now?" John still had his mug in his hands, it was getting harder to hold on to it.  
Sherlock released John from the hug, but kept his hands firmly on his shoulders.  
"John, please." Sherlock felt frustrated, should he risk it and push his luck more?  
"Sherlock!"

Sherlock didn't know if it was the right thing to do, but it felt like the only thing to do. He also had no idea exactly what to do, which was not a very comfortable feeling. But he went for it, and at that brief moment when their lips touched, Sherlock knew it was right.  
John didn't know why this was happening, he heard himself thinking no over and over again. But the nos eventually turned to yeses. John felt his mug slipping off his finger and pulled Sherlock down for a second kiss before they both let go of each other.  
"John…I…" Sherlock's pale cheeks finally mustered some colour.  
"Sherlock." John let out a long breath and looked at the smashed remains of his cup on the kitchen floor.  
"That was my favourite mug."


	10. Chapter 10

John treated himself to a few hours to sleep in. it has been about two weeks after he and Sherlock shared a kiss, and he still hadn't thought head or tail to it. Maybe he shouldn't. John put his hands to his head and pressed in his temple. Maybe he should just stop thinking. Maybe he should just go with it.  
"It's not that easy." John scrunched his eyes shut and announced to his room. "It's never that easy."  
"John?" Sherlock appeared by the door way, his figure dark against the late morning light rays.  
"Shit, Sherlock." John pulled his sheets to cover up his bare chest and around his waist; he wouldn't want Sherlock to catch even a glimpse of his underwear. "You could have knocked."  
"But the door was open."  
"Yes I know the door was open, there's also a thing called privacy."  
"You don't seem to know the basics of it if your door was left open."  
"Okay," John could feel his cheeks flushing up, "You didn't just barge in to tell me the door was open."  
"No, that'd be a waste of time." Sherlock turned ninety degrees to face the bottom of the stairs to the rest of the flat. "Do you want any tea?"  
"Sherlock, is this important?" John groaned. "I just wanted a few more hours of sleep."  
"Of course." Sherlock looked back at John, he seemed to be purposely stalling time, John realised the only blood in his body was colouring his cheeks.  
John watched Sherlock's Adam's apple bob up then down and he paced down stairs.

John's light footsteps radiated through the quiet flat accompanying Sherlock's fingers tapping away on his laptop. Sherlock could see John settling down opposite him at the table in his peripheral vision. The silence stacked up to minutes until Sherlock finally stirred in his chair.  
"Tea." He uttered the single word and shot a glance to the kitchen table, which surprisingly wasn't crowded with beakers and Bunsen burners.  
"What? Oh." John pushed himself up and walked over, his trouser ends dragged lightly behind him. "It's cold now," He said as his fingers curled around the mug.  
Sherlock managed a grunt of agreement.  
"Is this a new cup?" John sat back down in his chair, rummaging through his hair with his left hand.  
"Relatively, in some manner." Sherlock waved his hand.  
"Some manner? This is exactly like the cup that I dropped about two weeks ago," John marvelled at the piece of ceramic in his hand. "Did you buy me a new one, or?"  
"No, I couldn't find any, the supermarkets were not helpful at all." Sherlock looked up from his laptop, "So I made one."  
"You made one." John took another sip from the cup, it was surprisingly polished, and he for one would have paid good money for it. "So you just, you just got your ass off of the couch and decided to make me a cup."  
"Something like that."  
"What? How did you, where did you learn to make these?" John raised the cup to the light rays through the windows, letting the light reflect off the side.  
"It was for a case, had my interest for a while. Didn't last long." Sherlock's fingers trailed back to his laptop, tapping again  
John drank the rest of his tea before it could get any colder.  
"Are you working on a case?" John thought about making breakfast, or at least brunch now. But he enjoyed this, the familiar warmth of Sherlock just being here, no longer alone. The silence between them lasted a long time until Sherlock finally spoke again.  
"Quantum physics."  
"Hmm?" John looked up from the cup, a rush of blood flushed to his head and contributed to a light buzz to his brain.  
"I'm writing about Quantum physics, since to you asked."  
"At ten in the morning?"  
"It helps me think." Sherlock rested his hands either side of his laptop.  
"Of Course it does." John buried his face in his hands.  
The light sun rays has turned from luminous to pure shining heat, John moved himself away from the window and shuffled to sit beside Sherlock where his shadow covered him.  
"Problem?" Sherlock sensed that hesitation in John's presence.  
"When are we going to talk about this." John spoke into his jumper sleeve.  
"About what." Sherlock looked sideways to John's mess of brown blonde hair.  
John stayed silent.  
"About the kiss I presume."  
John let a slight shiver trail down his spine, if Sherlock had picked up on it, which he probably had, he didn't make any comments about it.  
"If you don't want to talk-"  
"Yes I do, Sherlock, we need to talk about this, what is this between us?" John kept his head down.  
"Well essentially I –"  
"Just, I want straight up honest conversation instead of your smart ass riddles this morning please, Sherlock." John held his right hand up.  
"You know as well as I do." Sherlock held back the 'for once' hanging at the back of his tongue, it wasn't the time to insult anyone right now, except maybe Anderson.  
"Yes okay right." John fumbled for the right word and decided to shut up.  
Sherlock raised his hands together under his chin, John watched Sherlock's eyes turn blank, thinking mode activated.  
It was nearly eleven when Sherlock finally snapped out of his trance and his eyes took the familiar shine again.  
"Dinner?" He asked John.  
"What? Dinner? It's eleven in the morning!"  
Sherlock looked to his watch, indicating a shrug with a weary raise of his lips.  
"You've got nothing else on."  
"What if I did?"  
"You don't."

John went out for lunch even though the fridge was well stocked, Sherlock was left with his eyes glued to the screen of his laptop.

Tea?  
-MH

A black car pulled up next to him as he waddled out into the light drizzle of rain, his phone in his pocket beeped almost simultaneously as Anthea stepped out of the taxi.  
"Watson?" She said with one of those forced polite smiles and opened the back door.  
John whispered thanks and slid himself in the car, landing softly on the black leather seats.  
"Long drive?" John asked.  
Anthea turned away from her phone and shrugged with another smile.

"Ahh Doctor Watson." Mycroft's face is a picture of happiness, except John knew better.  
"Mycroft," John's eyes darted across the dim lit café and addressed the older Holmes with a slight salute by his right hand.  
"And how is my dear brother doing?" Mycroft's left hand rested in the handle of a cup, while his right was placed on top of a government file.  
"Living," John automatically felt his cheeks warm up at the thought of Sherlock, he forced a cough manually.  
"Of course." Mycroft patted the file lightly.  
John signalled for the waiter and ordered his lunch, might as well, Mycroft didn't look like he was going to let John go anytime soon.  
"So please." John settled his folded arms in-front of him on the table. "Enlighten me."  
"Well I imagine Sherlock must be very busy at the moment." Mycroft's voice carried no movement, monotone.  
"You know he isn't." John wrapped his fingers around the glass of water Mycroft passed to him, he could feel the lukewarm liquid inside.  
"Yes." Mycroft pushed the government file towards John. "Give him my greetings as big brother will you?"  
"Well I don't understand," John took a sip of water, it was tasteless as it's supposed to be, but he felt slightly disappointed by it. "You've got plenty of others working for you that could deliver."  
"And you're the only one that he actually listens to."  
John had a small chuckle at that. "Really." He laughed, it was with sarcasm, but Mycroft held his face on the other end of the conversation.  
"He has respect for you John," Mycroft spun his umbrella next to him, the light drizzle of rain outside has stopped. "Maybe even more than that."  
"Okay." John tried to sound as if he dismissed the simple sentence as nonsense, but he knew it tugged at his insides. Luckily, his lunch arrived just in time.  
"Better run then," Mycroft stood up, adjusted his waistcoat and checked his fob watch before walking out the door with a frown on his face.  
John tried to focus on the plate of food in front of him, but it just didn't work.  
Maybe even more than that.  
He looked over at the file.  
Maybe even more.  
What was it anyway?  
Even more.  
"Okay." He demanded to himself with a weak whisper. "Stop thinking."

"Did you give my respects to Mycroft?" Sherlock called from the sofa as John took his second step into the flat.  
"How?" John placed the plastic bag onto the kitchen table, "Never mind, I don't really need to know."  
"Hmm." Sherlock rubbed at his face. "What day is it?"  
"Thursday, genius." John walked over to his couch, the cushion made a soft poosh sound as he sat down.  
"You've wasted money."  
"What about Mrs Hudson?" John looked back to plastic bag the kitchen table, hoping the takeaway would be good for someone.  
"Too late."  
"Fine."  
"I'll have it now." Sherlock reached his hand out, two nicotine patches were visible on his arm, his bathrobe draped softly over his torso.  
"What? The food?"  
"The file." Sherlock straightened his arm.  
John stood up with a grunt and passed the file over to Sherlock.  
"There you go."  
"Thank you." Sherlock grabbed the file and flung it behind him.  
John made a note to tidy the file up afterwards, but really right now his mind was on something else entirely.

"Get your coat." Sherlock appeared by John's doorway, it was now seven p.m. and Sherlock has just spent the last two hours playing his violin.  
"Why?" John mumbled.  
"Get your coat."

John half tripped down the stairs and got in the cab.  
"What's this then?" John shuffled in closer to Sherlock, the cold air outside was blowing through the windows of the cab, he wondered why they weren't closed.  
Sherlock was watching the outside buildings fly by them, if he did hear John, he didn't show it.  
The entire can ride was silence, whole thirty minutes of silence stretched between them.

Sherlock reached inside his coat and pulled out a fifty and held it out to the cab driver.  
"Thank you." Sherlock basically pushed John out of the cab before himself.  
"Sherlock!" John barely landed on the side walk.  
"Come on John." Sherlock lead the way quickly through the short alleyways with John running two steps behind.  
They stopped short in front of an archway leading to a large car park. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, John could see people shuffling in the corners.  
"Sherlock?" John felt for Sherlock's arm and pulled in closer to himself.  
"Just a routine trip John." Sherlock walked around the enclosed dark car park, passing out packages from his deep coat pockets to the dark silhouettes moving in the car park.  
"Is this, is this uh…" John slowly released his grip on Sherlock's arm. "Is this the homeless network?"  
Sherlock grunted agreement and passed out the last package, the tail of his coat bounced up as the weight left.  
"But I thought someone else bought their eyes and ears?" John felt like eyes and ears weren't the best term to use for the homeless, but he dismissed it.  
"Yes that was me." Sherlock started pulling John again.  
They walked through the car pack and ended up in a patch of grass behind the building.  
"What's this then?" John stepped on to the grass, feeling the dirt soft under his shoe.  
"Just an experiment." Sherlock gazed up at the sky, his face illuminated by the shine of the moon.  
"Okay." John went with it. It was nice, two best friends standing under the night sky, breathing the same fresh crisp air.  
"John." Sherlock's tone rose.  
"Hmm." John hardly took his eyes off the stars.  
Sherlock tightened his grip on John's hand and pulled his coat with the other. Reeling him in closer. John watched Sherlock's face twitch ever so slightly, he knew it was his nerves.  
"Oh for god's sake Sherlock." John lifted himself up on tip toes and brought his hand to the back of Sherlock's head, and pulled him into a kiss.  
While their lips touched John guided Sherlock's tongue with his own, he could hear Sherlock's deficient little helpless grunts escaping his lips. Their hands grasped tighter together.  
"John…" Sherlock whimpered under John's touch at the back of him neck, nerves prickling at every touch.  
"Shut up." John breathed heavy, he was quite sure that this was bad for his heart. He pulled away from the kisses, feeling his lips grow cold away from touch. "You're an idiot."


	11. Chapter 11

It was the next morning, the two consulting detectives were huddling together on the couch with the telly switched on to some documentary. Neither of them were paying attention of course, all too caught up with noticing the other.  
Sherlock had his feet hanging off one end of the couch with his head resting on John's lap while John's hand explored the masses of Sherlock's hair.  
"John." Sherlock had made no attempt to speak after they've kissed again about eleven hours ago. "John!"  
"Jeez calm down," John patted Sherlock's hair lightly and returned the gaze. "I'm still here. What's the problem?"  
"I don't like this." Sherlock complained with a small push of his lips to form a pout.  
"What? This?" John frowned.  
"No." Sherlock kept his eyes on John. "This…this is…fine." His eyebrow raised.  
"Oh." John laughed. Before he had no idea how Sherlock would live with this whole 'them' situation and that already was too much thinking for what he could handle in the measly hours of morning. Now he knows that Sherlock, despite the genius he is, has no idea how to deal with this.  
"Oh you mean that fluffy feeling in your heart?" John smirked.  
"It's more tugging at my throat," Sherlock pulled his arms out from under his legs and rubbed at his face. "I don't like it."  
"Well." John bent down and gave Sherlock a peck on his nose, to which he returned with a twitch of his nose and colour swarming into his pale cheeks. "You have to live with it for now."

Mrs Hudson has heard nothing of the boys this morning, no fighting, no yelling, and no one was shooting at the wall. She should be glad, but considering the amount of time the telly has been on and the bear minimum ratio of the amount of talking she could hear is scaring her.  
"Boys?" She started up the stairs. "Are you two alright?"  
The door to 221b was slightly ajar; she pushed it wide open and looked instinctively to the wall, expecting anything that might indicate Sherlock had a vent for his boredom. The only thing that returned her gaze was the pale yellow face that was beginning to form mould.  
"Oh dear." She whispered, "When will they get rid of that ghastly thing." She shook her head and continued to look for the boys before her eyes laid on the two on the couch.  
Sherlock's long mess of hair draped half over his face and half over John's right shoulder, John's head tilted to fall on top of Sherlock's. They were a perfect picture of calm and happiness.  
"Oh." Mrs Hudson to a hand to her heart. "Boys."  
Mrs Hudson left the flat with a bright smile blooming on her face.

The salty tang of bacon rose from the pan and out the window in the form of smoke from the kitchen. Sherlock watched as John waddled around the stove, working his way through the two frying pans. They both stayed silent, smiling like fools.  
Sherlock watched like a little kid, John could see different sparks in his eyes, obviously all of this was new and interesting to him.  
"Are you going to take a look at the file?" John felt like Sherlock's eyes were all over him, he didn't feel use to it, not in this way. Shaking off that feeling wasn't easy.  
Sherlock blew out a long breath and tussled his hair.  
"Are you ever going to take a look at the file?" John liked it, the fact that they both know that they're each other's. And the fact that Sherlock was new to this, it made him happy that for once, John knew more than the world's only consulting detective.  
"Probably." Sherlock crossed his arms on the kitchen table.

Having Fun?  
-MH

Sherlock watched as the screen of his phone lit up, the artificial blue light against the yellow rays of sun.  
"John."  
"No," John flipped his bacon and tossed them on the plates, "You can get it."  
Sherlock looked at John with confusion in his eyes.  
"John?" Sherlock repeated, John could hear the question and surprise spoken in the single word, he sighed and left eggs sizzling on the pan to grab Sherlock's phone.  
"Message from Mycroft." John tossed the phone to Sherlock, returning to his eggs.  
"Delete it." Sherlock grumbled.  
"You're holding the phone." John kept at the eggs.  
Sherlock let out a disproving grunt and started fiddling with his phone.  
A stern knock on the door interrupted both of them, John immediately held up his hand to Sherlock.  
"You're getting it," He declared, "I am cooking."  
Sherlock stood up with a groan and seemed to drag himself up to the door.  
"Brother dear." John heard the delighted tone and didn't know if he should feel happy or worried.  
"Mycroft." Sherlock dragged himself back to his couch.  
"Has Sherlock been giving you any trouble John?" Mycroft's umbrella came into the flat before himself. "I imagine he's been a bit uncontrollable lately."  
"Have you met him?" John put down his plate on the table and one opposite himself. "Describing him as uncontrollable is an understatement."  
Sherlock's lips twisted into a smile.  
"I hope you've had breakfast," John managed between mouthfuls of his own. "I'm not spending another ten minutes making more, sorry."  
"No my brother has had quite enough food today." Sherlock's smile stayed on his face. "I can't imagine the number of wafers you've had."  
Mycroft brushed at the top of his coat, his fob watch jingled at the mid of his waistcoat.  
"Breakfast at eleven in the morning." Mycroft groped for his watch and clicked it open. "You two must have had a late night."  
John looked up momentarily from the remains of his breakfast, eyebrows raised.  
"Indeed." Sherlock tilted his head to John.  
"Speaking of breakfast," John gestured to the other plate of food to Sherlock, "Are you going to have yours?"  
"Might as well." Sherlock pushed himself up and sat himself back down at the kitchen table.  
"I hope you're working through that file, brother." Mycroft tried a stern smile on Sherlock, "National importance."  
Sherlock scrunched up his face into the most sarcastic smile he could ever manage, making wrinkles appear through the skin around his eyes.  
"Well I won't disturb you two any further," Mycroft started to walk out, and stopped by the door. "By the way John, you've got a nasty scratch along the wall on the stairs, might want to take a look at it." Mycroft picked up his umbrella and smiled to John's confused face.  
"A scratch? It was fine last night." Sherlock heard the surprise in John's voice and shook his head slightly, he watched as John followed Mycroft out with a small sign of a frown.  
Sherlock chuckled and started eating.

"The wall looks fine Mycroft," John bent down and ran his fingers along the wall. "Must have been a trick of the light."  
"Must have." Mycroft wore a genuine happy smile, which struck to John as odd.  
"Hmm." John breathed out uneasily . "Good. You must be on your way then."  
"Of course." Mycroft opened the door to the outside before him and stuck his umbrella out in front. tapping the pavement, he spun himself to face back to John on his heels.  
"Just so you know. I'm happy for you two."  
John looked up from the foot of the wall, his eye lids widened to their biggest extent.  
Mycroft resumed to his daily routines and marched out. The clicking of his umbrella echoed behind him.

"Big brother approved, did he." It wasn't really a question, more of a statement, Sherlock's tone ended on a high note, sounding happier than he meant.  
"Uh, I think that might have been what he meant, yeah." John scratched his hair and put both the empty dishes into the kitchen sink. "Are you going to take a look at that file?"  
Sherlock looked back over his shoulder at the mess of papers and gave it a menacing sneer.  
"Hmm." John watched Sherlock's eyebrow raise in annoyance with a roll of his eyes.  
"What else are you going to do for the rest of the day?" John filled the sink with water and plopped himself down beside Sherlock on the couch. "Are you just going to wait until someone commits an interesting enough crime for you?"  
"That would be nice." Sherlock stretched his long legs out.  
"No it wouldn't." John laughed; he picked himself up and started picking up the papers on the floor. When he finally finished tidying and sat back down again, Sherlock looked at him with the expression of an angry child.  
"Don't go all childish on me." John warned him and put the file in Sherlock's lap. "Come on, take a look at it. Mycroft did say it was of national importance."  
"When is it not." Sherlock pried the file open with one finger and scanned through the pages.  
"Well." John slid his arms under Sherlock's and pulled him up to sit beside himself. "Is it interesting?"  
"I'll start on it tomorrow." Sherlock bundled the file together again and threw it on the coffee table. John cringed, hoping nothing was broken.  
"Okay. What are you going to do for the rest of the day?"  
Sherlock held his palms together under his chin.  
"Nothing?" John took the cue. "You're going to do nothing today?"  
Sherlock remained silent, his eyes blank.  
"Alright." John stood up again; he walked to the door and grabbed his coat from the coat hanger. "If you're going to think all day then I'm at least going to do my part to be productive." John walked out, leaving Sherlock sitting on the couch.

Sarah was just thinking how quiet work has been before John showed up to the clinic, a cheerful look on his face.  
"Hello Sarah." John took a small side step to take a glance at his office, another name plate rested on the table.  
"John." Sarah's voice carried surprise, in little amounts. "Back so soon."  
"Next week. I'll be back to work next week."  
"Great, it's been pretty busy." Sarah flipped her clipboard over to show John.  
"So who is doctor Hay?"  
"Oh the new doctor, since you took a long holiday that we all wished for, we had to get someone to fill in."  
"Right," John took a few steps in his own place, feeling the awkward in the air. "So I will resume work Monday then?"  
"Yep." Sarah took a glance at her watch, "Oh, Andrew wants to see you., I would have called but you're here." She flicked her head to the right and waved goodbye.  
John watched Sarah's back as she walked away, the click of her footsteps joined the rest of the population of the small clinic.

Andrew opened the door to his office and was more than happy to see John.  
"Hey." His lips curled up into a huge smile. "John! Good, come in, come in."  
"Hello." John was surprised to the overwhelming welcome. "Lovely to meet you too Andrew."  
Andrew was beside himself with giggles while John stood silently in the small space between the two chairs, his hands opening and closing.  
"Well sit down." Andrew pushed his glasses up further to the bridge of his nose.  
"Sarah said you wanted to see me?"  
"Oh yes, yes. Sit down." Andrew turned to his desk, shuffling the contents.  
John pulled a chair under him.  
"Here we go." Newspaper was produced from Andrew's drawer. "Front page."  
John took one look at the headlines. SERIAL KILLER FINALLY CAUGHT, MISS FREEZE GUILTY.  
"They couldn't have come up with a better nickname for her." John laughed, he remembered when the paper first came out, and even Sherlock had a chuckle, though it was followed with criticism of the harsher degree.  
"Were the contacts about this case?" Andrew's shoulders perched up excited.  
"Oh yeah. Yeah they were thank you for that by the way."

Sherlock remained in his position that John had left him in when John returned to the flat.  
"I see you're being energetic as usual."  
"Hmm." Sherlock noted the sarcasm, but didn't respond.  
John wandered into the kitchen. "Did you want anything to drink."  
"Black." Sherlock muttered.  
"Too lazy to even say coffee then." John brought out two mugs from the cupboard.  
"We've got a case."  
"Is it Mycroft's?" John responded to the click of the kettle and poured the bubbling water into the two mugs.  
Sherlock grunted in reply.  
"Not easy then."  
"No, big brother wouldn't have given it to me otherwise."  
"Well than it's your case." John stirred the milk in, watching the colours blend.  
"Doctor John Watson." Sherlock announced the title. "Doctor John Watson."  
"Alright." John handed Sherlock his mug. "Don't wear it out."  
"I don't like the sound of it," Sherlock took the beverage.  
"Too bad. I'm going back to work next Monday." John sat down next to Sherlock. "Are you starting on it then, the case?"  
"Tomorrow." Sherlock downed the coffee in one gulp and set the cup on the coffee table. "I'm busy today."  
"Okay. Doing what?" John chuckled, he set his mug down.  
Sherlock took John's waist with his arms and buried his face into John's stomach, breathing in heavily. John trailed his fingers up from Sherlock's neck to his hair, pulling the long follicles. Sherlock scrambled into John's lap, making soft groans. John bent down and brushed the hairs from his face, the soft pulsing of his lips beckoning John forward. He gave Sherlock a soft, warm kiss, one hand on the back of Sherlock's head to pull him closer. John felt himself being pulled down to Sherlock instead; they both ended up cuddling on the small couch. The floorboards creaked ever so slightly as John fell out of his sitting position to rest on top of the detective while he shifted to accommodate John's weight. The rest of the day was spent in absolute peace.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock's consistent snoring nudged John out of his slumber; he turned around to the detective muttering away into his pillow. While he had his long coat draped over him, John had the majority of the bed covers.  
His jumper was now uncomfortable with sweat and John had no idea he fell asleep with it on. He pulled it off, still aware of Sherlock's existence behind him, even if he was still asleep, John could feel his cheeks warm up as he searched his drawers for a shirt with his chest bare. His mind still relishing the smell of Sherlock when he had his arms around him, and the feel of his own around the detective. Before he left the room, John left Sherlock a soft kiss on the lips, which was returned with a low grunt.

"Could have woken me." Sherlock walked out of John's room around the middle of the day to the living room.  
"No you looked peaceful for once." John looked up from his newspaper.  
"I'm not peaceful?" Sherlock's eyebrows shifted in the slightest movement.  
"Not how I'd describe you."  
Sherlock nodded and picked up the file from the kitchen table, small crumbs decorated one corner.  
"Toast any good?"  
"Hmm no." John breathed out heavily from his nose.  
The quite day now full of the sound of rustling papers as Sherlock looked through the file with the word 'Classified' stamped in red on the front cover.  
Almost as soon as he had opened the file, Sherlock closed it again.  
"Phone?"  
"It should be in your coat, which is in my room, which-" John raised one finger, not looking away from his paper. "You are getting yourself."  
Sherlock grunted and paced up stairs to the bedroom, John heard the brief opening and shutting of doors followed by the heavy pouncing footsteps down the stairs again.  
"Lestrade!" Sherlock demanded through the speaker of his phone. "Get all the cases you have at hand, we'll be there in ten!" John heard the end dial of the call and placed his newspaper down.  
"We will?"  
"Sure, come on."  
John put his newspaper down on his lap to stare at the detective, he was hoping for a quiet weekend before he had to resume work again Monday, but apparently that wasn't what Sherlock had considered.  
"Can't you just take this case yourself?"  
"No." Sherlock's eyebrows drew together to a frown. "I need your help."  
"Right now you also need me to pay the rent considering you've been away for three years doing god knows what."  
"Please." Sherlock edged towards the door, his hand on John's coat.  
John gave a puff of breath and stood up, leaving the newspaper on his couch.  
"Fine." John took his coat from Sherlock's hand and pulled it on, ready to embrace the cold air outside.

Lestrade pulled out five files from the drawer in his desk and spread them out on the surface of the desk. Taking a glance at the clock, it was 12:40 already.  
"Blimey where did the day go?" Lestrade rubbed his hair and went out of his office, after a coffee strong enough to block out the possible irritation that Sherlock was going to bring with him soon.  
"Oi! You two!" Lestrade shouted in the direction of Anderson and Donovan, where they were in the same office cubicle, giggling.  
The two officer's heads popped on top of the low wall, staring back at Lestrade.  
"You two get out and have lunch or something." Lestrade cocked his head to the doorway. "I don't want you two hanging around when Sherlock gets here, don't need more cat fights."  
Donovan lost the smile on her face and paced out with Anderson calling 'Sally' behind her.

John didn't like the wind in his face as he stepped out of the cab, he ran to Sherlock, trying to hide under the more superior altitude that the detective had. They both marched into Scotland Yard with their collars turned upright, shielding the harsh weather.  
"Thalie." John heard Sherlock mumble to himself. "Thalie."  
"What?" John looked up to him as they walked through to Lestrade's office.  
"Nothing,." Sherlock dismissed the conversation with a frown and slight shake of his head before jumping straight onto the case files spread on Lestrade's desk quite literally.  
"Be careful! I need that desk!" Lestrade appeared by the doorway with a cup of coffee in each hand.  
"Thalie Paddy, cause of death strangulation, minor cuts present on face and arms. Do you have any others cases with similar details?"  
"Hang on," Lestrade handed John a cup, "Do you want to explain why you suddenly want my cases?"  
John thanked Lestrade with a nod and stood next to him, as eager for an answer.  
Sherlock shot a glance at the two.  
"National Importance!" He resumed immediately to the files flipping through.  
"National importance?" Lestrade's frown was fairly deep. "Is this the case that Mycroft told me about."  
"Seems the government pulled out all the stops, huh." John chuckled.  
"Is it though?" Lestrade's cup was already half empty. "Because he just mentioned it and I have no idea what it's even about."  
"Mm, yes what is this case about, Sherlock?"  
Sherlock slid himself into Lestrade's chair, his legs crossed over on the desk and a case file in each hand,  
"Sherlock?" Lestrade repeated. "Come on, give us something,"  
"Hmm?" Sherlock looked up, then down again. "Secret government organisation, nothing to worry about."  
John and Lestrade looked at each other and waited for Sherlock to continue.  
"Two of the members have been kidnapped, killed, Thalie Paddy was the first, then Derek Green." Sherlock folded the case files up and looked at Lestrade, "Tell me you have the bodies."  
"Uh, yep, down at St Barts," Lestrade gestured out the door with coffee cup in hand. "But hang on a minute, what about the other three cases."  
"Boring. Not worth my time."  
"Not even the baby killer? Reported from the young couple?" Lestrade was feeling irritated, he had the urge to throw the files to Sherlock.  
"Babysitter, she had keys to accessed the house, you would have seen the paint on the edge of her fingernails, the scene was messy. First killing, the whole thing was an accident; she didn't even expect the baby to be in the room. Like you said, young couple, they were brainless; left the infant in the newly painted nursery, paint was still drying. She tripped while trying to get the infant out; fell with the baby in her arms, fingers scrapping the wall, paint chips stuck on her palm. Didn't want to get in trouble, obviously. Fled the scene afterwards, terrified. Especially when you questioned her, you wrote fidgety, I think you meant she was fondling with her hands too much." Sherlock gave Lestrade a shrug. "Case closed, the others aren't worth my time, don't bother Inspector."  
Lestrade gave Sherlock a look which could only be described as a death stare.  
"And you got all that from the picture and the file?"  
"I've worked with much less." Sherlock seemed to shove the two files in his coat pocket before walking out and hailing a cab for St Barts.

John gave Molly a swift nod and waited for her to lead the way to the bodies in the mortuary, Sherlock was walking solemnly behind them, his mind in deep thinking mode. At this rate, John didn't think Sherlock would be eating until next month.  
"Another case then?" Molly made small talk with John. "Must be busy."  
"Not yet." John paced along the corridor. "Sherlock is going to be, in there?" he pointed to the normal entrance to the mortuary, having not been here for three years, John had little idea what it looked like in there anymore.  
"Yep." Molly held the door open and waited for Sherlock to enter, who gave her a small smile accompanied with a nod.  
"Thankyou Molly." Sherlock stood by the doorway inside, "Don't you have other patients to get to now?"  
"Uh, yes but, the bodies." Molly smiled uncomfortably, she didn't want to leave Sherlock with the bodies, who knows what he would do to them this time?  
"You have to look after the bodies and be at least in this room because I am not a member of staff I know." Sherlock watched Molly sway in her spot deciding.  
"But." Molly looked up and down her list.  
"National Importance." Sherlock smiled, gave Molly another thank and shut the doors.  
"Should I join her in the hallway?" John joked, looking around the room, there were more slabs than he remembered.  
"No John. Need my best man with me." Sherlock uncovered the cloth over the first body, cuts and slashes covered the head, face basically unrecognizable.  
John flinched slightly at the sight, bringing his hands to his face.  
"Opinions John?" Sherlock stood back, waiting for his input.  
"Not much." John recovered, the sight of the body brought up flashbacks of Afghanistan. "Um, not much identity left on her, marks of strangulation on her neck. Minor cuts on her arms and upper torso, seems like defensive wounds. Not much else."  
"Good." Sherlock nodded.  
"Not good?" John questioned.  
"No." Sherlock laughed, "Not good at all." He guided John with his hand at the small of his back towards the second body.  
"Well why didn't you just tell me?"  
"You said it was kinder." Sherlock answered in all seriousness and proceeded to start his deductions on the corpse.

John watched from the side as Sherlock casted his eyes over the lifeless body, he still didn't understand the consulting detective quite as well as he liked, but John knew Sherlock would never stop surprising him.  
"So this case?"  
"Too much for the average mind that needs to go to work in two days." Sherlock didn't even turn around, he dismissed John's interest in the case immediately, as John did with Sherlock's insult. It was expected of him just like the sun was expected to come up in the morning.  
"But I haven't got anything else to do for the rest of the weekend." John protested.  
Sherlock's lips thinned to a smile, he knew for a good deal that John still had his work shirts and pants not properly cleaned for a month, he knew John still had to do a pill run for Mrs Hudson, who was on her last two this morning. He also knows for a fact that John threw himself in his work for the last three years with nothing to spend his money on, he would have saved up a fair amount of money that could sustain both their living for a year without worry. The only reason that John would want to think about going back to work was to try and convince himself that he was still living a normal life, which they both knew was not quite true anymore.  
"No. You evidently don't have anything to occupy you for the rest of the weekend."  
"Go on then," John stood next to Sherlock, "Tell me about it."  
"Secret government organisation, they're in charge of planning something, I'm not sure what yet, but I'm sure we'll get to that detail later. But first of all, members are abducted and later killed. Which is what we have here, two dead bodies, who won't be the last. Thalie Paddy, whom was the first, was last seen a month ago. Her body was found in an abandoned warehouse. Derek Green was the second, last seen around two weeks ago, his body was found the day Mycroft handed me the file. The same abandoned warehouse. I believe all the rest would be abducted and killed as they were, and if I am not wrong, Mycroft is also in this organization, and if he has come to me for help, then no doubt he would soon be on the hit list." Sherlock straightened his back and turned away from the slab.  
"Wait, you mean Mycroft is in danger?" John's hands flew to his pocket, wanting to call Mycroft immediately.  
"No point John." Sherlock pulled the sheets over the two bodies. "My Brother would have known the position he was in the moment Thalie disappeared."  
"Right so what happens now?" John held his hand by the door, "We're not just going to wait for the killer to abduct someone else."  
"No of course not." Sherlock placed his hand on top of John's and firmly pushed open the door.

The two boys took a side trip to the pharmacist to purchase two more pill bottles for Mrs Hudson, after that was late lunch, followed by a visit to the big brother.  
Sherlock had already produced four insults before he even walked into the same room as the British Government. John had dismissed the insults as Sherlock's worry about his brother, or so he hoped.  
"Mycroft." John walked up to the elder Holmes brother. "Good to see you."  
"And you, John." Mycroft offered him a smile.  
"Mycroft." Sherlock's voice was monotone.  
"Brother dearest," Mycroft replied with the same voice, "I assume you're here about the case I sent you."  
"You mean the case you shoved down my throat?" Sherlock stepped away from Mycroft and sat down on one of the chairs in his office.  
"To put it bluntly." Mycroft didn't deny, he simply pointed John to the other seat before sitting down himself. "People's lives are in danger, people close to you."  
"People's lives are always in danger." Sherlock exclaimed, to which John rolled his eyes.  
"People close to you," Mycroft repeated. "Speaking of the case, there's been another abduction."  
Sherlock kept his silence.  
"Wait, today?" John looked at one Holmes brother then the next while his eyebrows locked together.  
"Yes, only a mere three days after Derek Green. They are working faster and faster, Daniel Pierce was missing after the meeting today, and we have no idea where he went."  
"Wait." John held his hand up, his lips pulling into a sarcastic smile. "And how many hours have you not heard from this Daniel Pierce?"  
"Seven."  
"But that's just seven hours, this Daniel could be just at home or anywhere." John nearly laughed.  
"Yes, of course that's entirely possible." Mycroft shot John another smile, "Only I don't think the GPS we implanted in the skin around his wrist that also monitors his heart rate would show a zero while supposedly his body continued to move. Do you? John?"


	13. Chapter 13

"What do you mean?" John's mind instantly went to his own wrist, "Does the government just implant them on everyone they employ?"

"No no John." Sherlock put a reassuring hand on top of John's, "It's just for this one secret organisation. But, I believe my dear brother here don't have one." He cocked his head towards Mycroft, "You didn't want your colleagues to know you went to your little brother for help. No, the government would have wanted to sort that out themselves, no matter how useless they were sometimes."

"My brother here is quite right John." Mycroft looked to John, "You have no need to worry."

"So this Daniel Pierce." John decided to change the subject. "Do you-"

"No John don't," Sherlock interrupted and ignored the eye rolling that followed. "That's not important, he'll turn up at the abandoned warehouse soon enough. The real question is what the organisation is for, Mycroft?"

"That is not important Sherlock." Mycroft held his cup of tea close to his face. "I need you to find the abductors, that's more important."

"If that's what you think," Sherlock stood up and straightened his jacket inside his coat, giving an arm to John, "Come on John, we have no more business here."

"Are you sure?" John took Sherlock's hand, but was reluctant to leave.

"If my brother says so, then it must be." Mycroft gestured to the door and put his teacup down. "Good day Doctor Watson."

"Yes thankyou Mycroft." Sherlock near pulled John off his seat and propelled him out the door.

"You boys," Mrs Hudson opened the door at around six in the early evening. "It's too cold for you two to be out at this time in this dreadful weather."

"It's London Mrs Hudson." Sherlock pulled their landlady into a warm hug, "It's always this dreadful weather."

"We're back now Mrs Hudson, It's alright." John pulled his coat off and produced the two pill bottles from the pockets to Mrs Hudson.

"Oh thankyou dear." Mrs Hudson took the bottles, satisfied with her boys now back in their warm flat, and returned to her own. "You boys have an early night."

"Alright Mrs Hudson." John followed Sherlock up the stairs and wished the old lady goodnight.

"So why are we back here?" John laid two cups of tea on the table and questioned Sherlock.

"Problem?" Sherlock picked up his cup, "Did you want to stand guard at the abandoned warehouse waiting for suspicious personnel to appear? Were you going to stay in front of Mycroft's door holding your gun ready to shoot?" He took a sip, "Don't be ridiculous, what we need to figure out is what the organization is for, then we have an idea of the possible suspects."

"You figure it out." John took his cup and prepared to retreat to his room, "Meanwhile I'm going to worry myself to my sleep because I have nothing better to do."

Sherlock stared at the back of the ex-army doctor as he marched up the stairs; he finished all his tea and set the cup back.

Sherlock never enjoyed this before, the peace and quiet, the calm flows of wind through the window fluffing through his tangled hair. He let his mind wander and drift, palms together under his chin. The consulting detective in his mind's eye walked through his mind palace, stroking the wall as he went.

_Organization._

_Organi_Sation

_Separate members. Abducted._

_Abducted within._

_Within._

_Within._

**Why**

**Why?**

Wh**y? Abduct them one by one.**

**If the government cannot track them to the warehouse why not take the whole**

**Group?**

**Why? Singular.**

Singular.

Singular- [Sing-gyuh-lar] Adjective

Being the only one of its kind; distinctive; unique.

**No**

**No?**

Singular: Distinctive/ separate-Individual

Singular!

With**in?**

**Singular!**

"Oh," Sherlock opened his eyes, a quick glance to his watch and it was already late into seven in the evening. "Singular." He walked zombie-like upstairs to John's bedroom.

John tossed around in his bed until he heard Sherlock's heavy but quick footsteps did he finally wish he were fast asleep this early on a Saturday night.

"John." Sherlock opened the door; his silhouette casts a dark shadow across John's bed. "Individual."

"What?" John rubbed at his eyes; surely he would be sleepy soon?

"Singular." Sherlock spoke and swayed in his spot. John rushed out of bed and caught hold of him before he could fall.

"I can't believe you!" John dragged the man to his bed and rested him on top. "How long have you gone without food?! What? Two days? Three?"

"Four."

"Sherlock!" John pushed Sherlock to sit upright on his bed, letting him lean against the wall. "Dammit, I'm going to get you soup and you are going to eat it." He quickly ran down the stairs and popped the kettle on. John ignored Sherlock's loud grunts of disapproval and pulled out instant soup sachets from the cupboards above his sink. His fingers fumbled opening the sachet and pouring the contents into a bowl.

"Four days!" John yelled as he pulled the kettle from the power. "Four bloody days?"

"Transport." Sherlock returned John's stern shouting with his own.

"Dammit Sherlock." John carried the bowl with a spoon and stomped fast to his room. "Damn you and your stupid superior bloody mind!"

Sherlock watched John march into the room, bowl and spoon in hand. He noticed the strained eyebrows and the tensed muscles around his eyes bunch together. He noticed veins rise on John's arms but his eyes remaining soft and concerned. If he could be described in one word at this moment, it would have to be caring.

"From now on." John declared as he tried to stab a hot spoonful of soup into Sherlock's mouth, "You are eating at least one meal a day!"

"Johmmm!" Sherlock opened his mouth to justify himself not eating, but John took the chance to spoon Sherlock another mouthful of hot soup.

"If you are going to tell me what you've figured out," John held another spoonful firmly in front of Sherlock's face while Sherlock nodded to John's statement. "I don't want to hear it, not tonight. You are going to finish this soup, I'm going to get you a cup of water after and you are going to go to sleep until it is well into nine tomorrow morning. And!" John shoved the spoon into Sherlock's mouth as he sensed Sherlock's disagreement to his arrangement. "You are going to have breakfast tomorrow definitely."

"John have you any-"Sherlock tried to push John's soup away, "Have you any idea what you are doing?"

John resist rolling his eyes and set the bowl down.

"Sherlock, I know you are not eating because of Mycroft is in danger and this case is important –"

"That's not the reason." Sherlock interrupted stubbornly.

"And if that was the reason, if you are going to continue this I will go out of my way to make sure you are not going to sail smoothly with working on this case." John continued and gave Sherlock another mouthful. "Are we clear?"

Sherlock gave John a thoughtful look, his mind shouting at him to stop eating but his stomach betrayed his thoughts.

"Unfortunately." Sherlock took the bowl from John and finished the rest of it with an annoyed look on his face.

John smirked and pulled Sherlock in a hug, leaving a soft but firm kiss on his forehead before jogging down to the kitchen for water.

Sherlock woke up a little after two in the morning; he was surprised he slept at all. John was next to him, the covers shrugged of his shoulder. Sherlock slid himself off the bed silently and pulled the covers up to John's neck to which he responded with soft moans.

Sherlock guided his hair out of his view while he bent down to just centimetres in front of John's face, Sherlock placed his large hands under John's chin and planted a kiss on his cheek, leaving just a small glint of moisture and a smile on John's lips before Sherlock stomped his way down stairs.

"I demand to take over your computer!" Sherlock was thoughtful enough to shout abuse at Lestrade via his phone outside the building of 221b. "You have no idea how important it is!"

"Now listen Sherlock, Mycroft only said you would take the case, not take the whole Scotland yard under your control!" Lestrade is shouting back in what he though was the voice of an angry middle aged, powerful man, though it hardly showed.

"Don't make me call him!" Sherlock half threatened, half tightening his eyebrows into a knot..

"You call him! And don't call me again at two thirty in the morning; I don't have the time or the amount of patience to listen to you at all!" Lestrade hung up, leaving a very bitter Sherlock out on the sidewalk with no doubt many angry neighbours.

"John! John!" John felt increasingly annoyed at the existence of his name, and it was just five in the morning.

"Sherlock what?!" John waved around his arm in the direction of Sherlock's voice, who caught his hand and proceeded to pull John out of the warm, loving arms of his bed.

"Oh my god-Sherlock!" John fumbled with his hands to cover the rest of him, the cold air bet him to it.

"John we have no time to waste." Sherlock kept his grip on John's arm, "There's another uh…" Sherlock paused mid-sentence, his gaze dropped.

"Stop, Sherlock, stop. Go, go get out. Put your bloody coat on and wait by the landing, please." John shook Sherlock's hand off and pushed him out the door as fast as he could.

"But John, another mur-" Sherlock held up a hand stayed by the outside of the door.

"Go eat your breakfast!" John slammed the door shut in Sherlock's face, fuming with anger. "And learn about personal space!"

Sherlock poked about at the piece of toast he put under the microscope with a deep burrowing frown.

"Dreary."

"What?" John poked his head out from around the stairway. "What are you doing?  
"This toast." Sherlock stretched a rubber glove on his hand and showed the carbon covered bread to John. "Do you have any idea how many bacteria is on this thing?"

"Yes I do, especially after you've probably experimented with it." John hurried down the stairs and approached the detective sitting by the table. "And I'm sure you do too."

"I do." Sherlock dropped the toast on the table, "Obviously."

"Come on," John pulled Sherlock up from the seat and put the toast into the bin. "I'm not going to clean up after you all the time and you said there was another murder? Was it that Daniel Pierce?"

"Oh yes. Down by the abandoned warehouse." Sherlock held his arm at John's waist, bending a bit to accommodate his short height.

"Again?" John opened door to the landing below the set of stairs outside their flat. "You'd think they'd set up at least some surveillance to at least keep watch of the place?"

"Clearly something has happened." Sherlock pulled John closer into his chest, "Which is why we are going to Scotland Yard this morning, I think something is off with their government information recording system."

"Shouldn't we be going to Mycroft's then? I'm sure it would be easier if we used the government's computer to get into the government system."

"No." Sherlock pulled in John's head and gave him a soft kiss, which John returned with a second, stable and warm one.

"Is this your sibling rivalry talking?" John opened the door and walked out, bracing the wind.

"My what?!" Sherlock frowned and glared at John.

"Sibling rivalry." John repeated.

"If you think I would even think of wasting my time for that lump of fa-"

"There it is." John laughed.

The tip of Sherlock's lips curled up and he held out for a cab.

Government leak?

-JW

Mycroft eyed his phone, feeling a headache advancing on him.

"Anthea?" He raised his head in the direction out of his office and to Anthea's room that stretched beyond.

"Mr Holmes?" Anthea strutted in, her phone in one hand.

"Could you get me a long black, no sugar with extra aspirin please?"

"Sure." Anthea marched off, her heels clicked in the distance.

"Thank you." Mycroft pressed his index finger to his temple, this was not needed on an early Sunday morning.

I'll take that into consideration.

-MH

His fingers glided over the surface of the keys of his phone.

"Long day?" Anthea walked back, a mug on a saucer in one hand and two pills in the other.

"Sure is going to be, thank you." Mycroft took over the coffee. "And Anthea?"

"Mr Holmes?" Anthea retraced her steps back.

"Be careful in the near future Anthea." Mycroft took a long sip of his coffee, offering a slight grimace at the taste. "I hope you watch your back."

"Sir?" Anthea had a puzzled look on her face, which was uncommon for her.

"Just friendly advice. Please take it." Mycroft gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile and kept drinking away his worries.

"Do you have to do this here?" Lestrade hovered over Sherlock's shoulder, looking at the computer screen that he had taken over.

"Yes I do, no more of your stupid questions, go drink the rest of your latte and please take a shower so you can get the smell of alcohol out of your clothes. You need to stop drinking away your problems with your ex-wife." The tik tak of the keyboard under Sherlock's fingers almost drowned out his deductions, too bad Greg was leaning in too close.

"Sherlock." John pressed in closer to Sherlock's side. "Pushing it!"

"Bloody hell Sherlock!" Lestrade's fingers dug into his palm, his fist gaining more and more veins. He marched out of the office floor, flipping the bird to the detective.

"Did you do that on purpose?!" John watched Greg's tensed up body disappear out the door.

"Yes." Sherlock didn't bother looking up; he was closing in on breaking in the password protected areas. "I needed him out of the room just in case Mycroft informed him on my advances for this case and he really ought to rid his life of the memories of his ex-wife. It is distracting, the amount of sentiment he's feeling."

"You could've asked me to get him out of the room." John sighed.

"I could have." Sherlock raised his left index finger and pressed it on John's lips. "Thinking."

John's eyes wondered around the busy office floor, majority of the population were talking, clicking their keyboards and walking around. Anderson was also glaring at Sherlock with annoyance mixed into his face, which John knew wasn't a positive input to anything right now.

"EVERYONE SHUT UP, STOP WHATEVER YOU ARE ALL DOING AND JUST BE QUITE!" Sherlock bellowed out a massive cry throughout the room. All the eyes were instantly turned to him, about ninety-nine percent of those were shocked, mad expressions.

Sherlock's mind started working fifty mile an hour, pulling in information from pieces of facts swirling around in his mind.

As soon as Sherlock's finger left John's lips he started working away on the keyboard.

Show Sherlock.

Downloading images…

-MH

"Are you through the password yet?" John looked away from the lit up screen of his phone and tapped Sherlock on the shoulder.

"Obviously."

"Yes right obviously." John stared at the information Mycroft has just sent to him.

"Have you seen this?" John waddled in between Sherlock and the computer screen he commandeered.

"What?" Sherlock's frown turned into an interested spark in his eyes. His attention shifted from the computer to John's phone showing pictures from Daniel Pierce's murder. his body was strewn across the warehouse floor, several blood pools were beneath him and words were carved on his chest.

Hello Sherlock xx

Sherlock's interest turned into delight, this was new, and this seemed horrifyingly familiar.


	14. Chapter 14

"Great." Sherlock shifted his gaze from John's phone back to the computer screen.  
"Great?" John turned the phone to himself, wondering if the image had changed. "Your name is carved on a poor man's chest!"  
"I know." Sherlock clicked through the masses of information popping up on the screen.  
"Great," John re-joined Sherlock's side at the front of the computer, "Just what I need right now."  
"We're in." Sherlock closed in the difference between his eyes and the computer screen. "Look, Mrs Thalie Paddy, age thirty-two, she's been working for the government for three years now. Apparently we have a Mr Paddy on system files but no picture, he's also unemployed and out of the country, convenient. Oh look at this," Sherlock stepped aside and let John face the computer.  
"What am I looking at?" John frowned.  
"The profile, Thalia paddy changed her dna sample just one month before she was killed."  
"So?"  
"Don't you see John, she changed the dna and her body's face was also smashed and cut to pieces. The abductors didn't want her identity to be found, because the body wasn't hers. Thalie Paddy is still alive. That body in the morgue right now isn't of a member in a secret government organisation, it's probably some call girl in the streets." Sherlock was getting more and more excited to John's disappointment.  
"Wait, wait a second so what are you implying?"  
"I'm not implying, I'm saying that the real Thalie was killed. I'm saying that for some reason Thalie was replaced and where ever the fake Thalie is now, that's where the abductors are, because she's one of them."  
"So she's?"  
"A mole, precisely." Sherlock shut down the computer. "Come on John, we've got to go to the crime scene, I don't believe big brother has released it to the police yet."

Mycroft sat in his car waiting for Sherlock and his doctor to arrive. Anthea was keeping him company, but was more focused on her phone.  
"How far away are they?" Mycroft gave Anthea a side glance.  
"About ten minutes." Anthea looked more intensively at her phone.  
"You think they'd get a car." Mycroft complained.  
"A car?" Anthea smiled at Mycroft. "What would be the point of one in London."  
"I guess." Mycroft put his hand on the handle of the car door and pushed it open, he stepped out into the windy day. It was well into eight in the morning, and the sun still hasn't made an appearance yet.

Sherlock made a soft disapproving grunt as soon as the cab stopped just a block away from the warehouse, he paid the cab driver and jumped out with John behind him.  
"What was that?"  
"Seems the government is watching us in person this time." Sherlock stuffed his gloved hands into his pockets.  
"Why would Mycroft be at the crime scene?"  
"I think he's scared." Sherlock's lips portrayed a content smile.  
"Great." John shivered slightly with the wind at his back, "Not much hope for the rest of us then."  
They marched in uncomfortable silence before they reached the warehouse, it didn't seem like much from the outside. The building with the usual graffiti covered walls with posters that have wasted away stuck lifelessly on the grime covered doors looked back at them as they approached. Mycroft stood at the entrance, armed with a cup of coffee.  
"Good to see law and order guarding this place." Sherlock stared at Mycroft, "Do we have any idea how the body got in here when Lestrade and you so obviously kept surveillance on this particular warehouse."  
"Seems we've got-"  
"A mole." Sherlock finished Mycroft's sentence for him. "Quite clearly, and what else?"  
"Apparently also a security breach late last night." Mycroft continued.  
"Last night?" Sherlock heard the disheartened tone in Mycroft's voice, it raised not one but three flags in Sherlock's mind.  
"Midnight." Mycroft corrected himself, "We had an imposter pretending to be the first victim, Thalie Paddy, and they used their pretence identity to put off surveillance. Though the security breach was found thirty minutes later, when the officials returned to the scene, Daniel Pierce was already here, with your name carved cleanly on his chest." Mycroft turned to Sherlock, there was a spiteful look in his eye.  
"Lovely," Sherlock exclaimed, "Thank you Mycroft, what would this country do without you?" he gave an over the top salute to his brother and walked into the warehouse.

"Is this Moriarty then?" John approached the lifeless corpse on the ground, avoiding the blood pools.  
"Thinking." Sherlock held up his index finger and stared at the corpse. Leaving John standing behind him, feeling the awkward in the air.  
"So is this Moriarty?" John repeated, earning a displeased look from Sherlock.  
"No." Sherlock shook his head, "No this," he spanned his arms out over the area that the body covered. "This is new, this is exciting. This is similar, it's got his signature but this was not him, no not in person."  
"Should we be worried about Moriarty." John felt overwhelmed, this body was not what he wanted to see, and the fact that Sherlock's name was carved in the dead flesh made him feel even more uneasy.  
"No no." Sherlock patted John's shoulder, "Let me worry about Moriarty."  
"Okay alright," John fumbled with his hands and pulled out his notes, "Got anything on the body?"  
"John," Sherlock chuckled, "You're underestimating me."  
"Of course, go on."  
"What do we know about this body?" Sherlock raised an arm to the body on the ground.  
"It's uh, he's lost a lot of blood, actually." John waddled over to the body, "Actually I think he died of blood loss." He looked at Sherlock, waiting for approval.  
"Yes." Sherlock nodded, "What else."  
"There's rope burns on his limbs, he seems to have been tied down. There's bruising on his face and nose" John looked the body up and down again, "Not much else that I can see."  
"Hmm. Well you were quite right John, judging from how clean the wounds on his chest are, the murderer probably used a slicer knife. He, speaking statistically, probably sharpened the knife particularly for this kill seeing how deep the wounds are, penetrating straight to the bones of the ribcage. All of this blood couldn't have been produced if he was dead so the murderer sliced him while he was still alive. He would have been choking and coughing to breathe, and with each exhausting breath blood would have been pouring out of him in litres. Death occurred within twenty minutes after shock took over, murderer cleaned the wounds after to make sure the message would still be recognisable. After all that was the point of the killing, this one was different to all the other ones because the body served a purpose to the murderer. I think we have two people here working either together or towards the same goal." Sherlock paused for a moment of breath, frowning. "John?"  
"Sherlock." John answered.  
"Do you happen to have a plastic bag on you?" Sherlock held his hand out to John.  
"No, but you've got plenty in your pocket."John pointed at Sherlock's coat.  
"Hmm," Sherlock pulled a handful out and bent down to Daniel Pierces face. He seemed to pick up something from the skin and dropped them in his bag.  
John took his time and studied the wrist's of the body; there was a small scar on each wrist, a tiny speck of light shone through. The new skin still pale pink.  
"Problem?"  
"Uh no, no problem." John dropped the wrists. "None at all, anything more?"  
"I think I've got enough to go on with." Sherlock's eye scanned the scene once again before turning away and stalking off. John followed quickly after.

Sherlock stopped the cab on the way back to 221b and dragged John out behind him, tossing a fifty and thanks to the cab driver.  
"What are we doing here?' John wandered after Sherlock in the streets; his flat was six blocks away.  
"Shopping." Sherlock rushed forward with quick steps.  
"Why are we shopping in the middle of the day?" John protested. "And the shops are the other way."  
"I know."  
John gave up on his words, like Sherlock would listen to them anyway.  
It was a relatively long walk, with all the people swarming around them and Sherlock stopping at down every little store along the way.  
"What are we shopping for?" John caught the end of Sherlock's sleeve.  
"It's particularly cold today isn't it?" Sherlock slowed down to accommodate the speed John's legs were carrying him.  
"You know it is." John stopped abruptly before he could stumble into Sherlock, who finally stopped in front of a clothes store.  
"I'll meet you back at the flat," Sherlock shoved a hand at John's shoulder. "Don't you need to update your blog?"  
John looked Sherlock up and down, not sure if he should be worried or annoyed.  
"Uh, alright." He hurried along, leaving Sherlock beside himself with giggles.

Add new entry –

Title entry – Confidential case

Entry input – Not a lot I can tell about this case without the government marching soldiers into my door. But life still goes on, I will be returning to work on Monday so I doubt I'd be able to keep up with the amount of facts that Sherlock would so obviously be throwing at me.

John paused his fingers on the key board; there wasn't a lot he could write about, why did Sherlock blow him off so quickly anyway? John left the mouse hovering over the submit button, maybe he should wait for Sherlock to get back.  
"John," Sherlock pushed the door open, John turned to stare at him. "Bought you this." He tossed a red fluffy scarf to John, who caught it barely.  
"Great, thanks." John studied the strip of fabric that was tossed to him, "Why? I thought you would have better things to do."  
"I do." Sherlock turned the light at the microscope on and pulled out an empty slide. "But I thought you needed a scarf that…" Sherlock bit his lips.  
"That?" John shifted his gaze between the suspiciously red scarf and the detective.  
"I thought you needed a scarf that would match your pants." Sherlock avoided eye contact and start unpacking the substance he collected at the crime scene.  
John sat in his place. Blinking.  
"What?" John processed the words over again in his mind. "What?"  
Sherlock ignored the Looks John was giving him, tuning the microscope under his eyes.  
"What? Sherlock?" John stood up and held the scarf in his hand. Sherlock paused his fingers on the slide.  
"Problem?"  
"No," John puffed out his chest, "No problem at all, none." John didn't know whether to laugh or to be angry. He left the room, decided that he needed to think and be left alone.

It was around twenty minutes later when Sherlock finally did knock on John's door, and it was another ten minutes before John responded.  
"It was a woman." Sherlock sat down on the bed opposite John on the chair, "The murderer this time was a woman. There were flakes of nitro cellulose in the face wounds, must have scraped off when she punched him."  
John still had his head rested on his arms on the back of his chair, he said nothing.  
Sherlock waited for a response hesitantly.  
"Nitro Cellulose is uh… car paint, and nail polish is a refined version so – "Sherlock stopped at John's raised hand.  
"Sherlock we need to have a talk." John's finger stroke the scarf mindlessly on the side while he felt continuously annoyed towards it.  
"What? Now?" Sherlock's' eyebrows practically touched together. "No no time for that we need to go to the warehouse right now, I just received a text from Mycroft, Anthea is missing."  
"Wait what?" John stood up, almost toppling over the chair. "When?"  
"Precisely two minutes ago." Sherlock grabbed his coat by the door, "I assume you're coming."  
John searched for his coat around the room.  
"I am."  
Sherlock threw John his coat, wrapped the red scarf around the doctor's neck and proceeded to put on his own. "Can't risk you catching a cold."  
John puffed out his cheeks, ignoring the red in the corner of his vision, and pushed Sherlock out the door with his hands on the detective's lower back.

John had his finger squeezing the trigger on his gun, the consulting detectives were hiding behind the crates and boxes in the warehouse. Waiting for any signs that Anthea might be here.  
"Are you certain she's going to be here?" John watched the dusty, empty floor.  
"Yes." Sherlock's eyes has zoned out completely, it was so silent John felt like he could practically hear him thinking. They've been here for four hours already. John didn't want to be here any longer.  
"How much longer are we going to be here?" John felt like his arse was growing roots on the concrete.  
"Any minute now." Sherlock glanced at his watch, two minutes to eleven.  
John settled his gun beside him and shuffled to Sherlock, he pulled his hand into his own.  
"Hmm?" Sherlock mumbled undecidedly, his eye still staring blankly.  
"Sherlock, we need to talk." John gently pushed Sherlock's face to face himself. "How are you dealing with this case? With Mycroft in danger?"  
"John this isn't the time for you to try and start an unlicensed therapist session, especially not with me." Sherlock planted a soft, light kiss on John's forehead and stood up. "We've got work to do."  
"We do?" John cast his eyes to the rest of the warehouse, a silhouette walked out of the shadows with two others behind.  
With almost lightning speed, John picked up his gun and immediately stood in a Bull's eye stance, watching the silhouettes walk out of hiding. A young woman with light brown hair that fell to her shoulders, the frames of her square glasses sat promptly on her nose and cheeks, reflecting lights in the cornea of her silk blue eyes, she accompanied Anthea. They were joint by the wrists by a handcuff, though the young woman seemed more comfortable than Anthea, in front of them stood the consultant criminal, in his usual west wood contrasting a red tie.  
John seemed flabbergasted; his jaw would be hanging to his chest if it wasn't for fear tensing his muscles.  
"Are you boys having fun without me?" Moriarty's voice bounced off the walls, echoing.  
John cursed under his breath, where the hell are the surveillance watching this place?  
"If you call this fun," Sherlock seemed aggravated, while his eyes sparkled fascination. "Yes."  
"How is he alive." John croaked, out of breath, "How is He ALIVE!?" he stalked towards Sherlock, trying to guard him.  
"Oh," Moriarty held an ecstatic grin, "Haven't you figured it out yet detective? I'm a bit disappointed."  
"No, how you faked your death was disappointing." Sherlock put a reassuring hand on John's folder, and took the gun from him, almost instantly, sniper lasers showered them.  
"Oh really Sherlock?"  
"Yes really," Sherlock took another step forward, John sighed to himself. Sherlock better not start with his deductions here and now. But he continued. "A gun with empty shells and a blood pack doesn't spell impressive. It's more pathetic."  
"Sherlock!" John shot Sherlock a warning glance.  
"Aw." Moriarty put a hand to his chest, "That hurt. But you've got to say, the acting was good. As well as the body in the freezer at the mortuary. But I'll give it to you; your death was much more impressive."  
Sherlock crinkled his nose.  
"Anyway. I'm just here to return your friend." Moriarty turned his back to them, unlocked the handcuffs and released Anthea. She scurried to John, grasping his sleeves.  
"What about your plan?" Sherlock pointed the gun directly at Moriarty, watching all the lasers focus on John, threatening his existence.  
"What plan?" Moriarty gestured for the young woman to step forward alongside him. "The plan to steal the blueprints of the secret new weapon the government has decided to make for back up in extreme dangers and to help neighboring countries if needed." Moriarty looked at the young woman, who chuckled back to him, ruffling in her black lace dress. "No that was never the plan, we didn't need them. The whole thing was just a little show and tell for my… apprentice."  
"Apprentice?" Sherlock looked over to John with a foggy expression.  
"Well," Moriarty bent down and scooped up the young woman, cradled her while she took hold of his neck, "Staci is my Live in apprentice."  
The sniper lasers all disappeared as Staci clapped her hands, she then pulled herself up to give Moriarty a kiss, who returned a bite on her lips, red dripping and glistening. A single laser wavered on Staci's head, and then disappeared again.  
Moriarty set Staci down and shoved his hands in his pockets.  
"It's a pity Sherlock. You would have been great practice for little Staci Hartriss here." John watched as Moriarty stepped forward again, "But I have to kill you now, you've ruined my reputation and I'm not going to let you live any longer."  
"So you're just going to keep killing and tricking ordinary people, without me to stop you there is no fun at all." Sherlock raised his hand slightly above Moriarty's head, squeezing the trigger.  
"Oh you got me there." Moriarty did a twirl in his place, straightening his tie and tapping his peach brown shoes. "But why not, I've got nothing else to do for the rest of the week."  
Anthea cringed and pulled tighter on John's jacket while the lasers drizzled down on them once more.  
"I think not." Sherlock raised his arm a bit higher, the gun now pointing at approximately thirty centimetres above Moriarty's head. "I'll give you something to do. John?" he turned to John, "Vatican Cameos."  
Sherlock fired three shots in quick concession, one up high, and two to either side of him before dropping to the floor while John quickly pulled Anthea down along with him. Almost instantaneously white foam filled the floor of the warehouse, covering the three and rapidly chasing to Moriarty and Staci. As John held his breath and waited for Moriarty to make any moves, but all he could hear were the foot steps leading out of the warehouse and the fuming screams of the consultant criminal over the damage of his west wood and red tie.


	15. Chapter 15

Anthea held her breath; the foam was clouding her vision and the only sense of stability she had was the feel of John's coat under her hand.  
"Are… are we safe?" Anthea whispered in the general direction she thought John was.  
"Sherlock?" John called out as softly as he could.  
"No need to worry John," a shape trudged through the foam "He's gone. We're safe."  
Anthea watched a hand push through the foam and lifted John up; she rolled her eyes in annoyance and stood up herself.  
"What is this?!" Anthea inspected herself, about eighty percent of her body was covered in the white foam and half of that was in her hair.  
"What did you shoot?" John swatted at his sleeves.  
"Fire extinguishers." Sherlock seemed to not notice the foam covering him and walked to the exit.  
"Ok, right." John caught his breath back and took his gun from Sherlock, turning back to Anthea.  
"Are you alright? Did they do anything to you?"  
For a second Anthea looked haunted, then she felt around her pockets, fishing for her phone.  
"Yeah," Anthea snatched her phone out and seemed to recover a smile. "You know, the usual. Someone freaking gag me with chloroform and SCARED THE ABSULOTE CRAP OUT OF ME!" She recollected herself and took a deep breath. "I'm fine, they didn't do anything. Sorry, didn't mean to shout."  
John stood in his stance and watched as Anthea looked back at her phone and started dialing, he thought maybe it was time to leave as well.  
"Are you going to be okay?" John approached her again.  
"Yeah, yeah Mycroft is going to pick me up, I'll be fine." She rolled her eyes, signaling for John to leave already.

"It's not over."  
John looked over to Sherlock, he hadn't spoken for the night and definitely didn't look like he wanted to.  
"I'm sorry what?" John stood up and poured the detective a cup of coffee.  
"You heard me." Sherlock took the cup.  
"I did, you can always share the context of the conversation that I didn't know we were having."  
Sherlock sighed, why are people so boring?  
"Like I said, there are two people working towards the same goal here. We've found one now, Staci Hartriss. But she only committed one of the murders with my name on the handiwork. But we don't know the other one who's been torturing and killing the others. That person could still be active."  
"You're missing the important thing Sherlock." John hoisted himself from the table and resided opposite the detective.  
"I'm missing the important thing?!" Sherlock's voice reached soprano level while his eyebrows flew up. "Well I'm sure you're right Doctor John Watson and I expect you already know who the other psychopath is then?"  
"Sherlock, I mean…" John knew it wasn't a good choice of words even before he had spoken. "I mean now that Moriarty is back, what about you?"  
"What about me?"  
"What about your safety, what if he tries to kill you again?"  
"Oh he wouldn't do that."  
"Why not?" John felt like he wanted to punch the ignorance out of him. "Just because you think he won't? That's not enough. That is not enough for me to stop worrying! I had to call off my first day back to work because of what happened last night and I am personally not prepared to go back to a seemingly normal life while I'll be bloody worried about you the entire time!"  
Sherlock sat in silence. He felt speechless and empty. Not what he was used to.  
"John I…" He started to explain, but John had planted his face in his hands, and Sherlock thought maybe this was one of the times when he should be quiet.  
"I just cannot be worrying like this all the time." John looked up again, tears bordering his heavy eyelids.  
"Work with me." Sherlock spoke in a minor whisper, he wasn't sure if this was the time to speak. Why was human interaction so complicated and boring?  
"Work with you?"  
"Yes." Sherlock raised his palms and pressed them together.  
"You mean here?" John couldn't say he had never thought of it before, but he couldn't think of it in the last three years. He would have taken the job if he wasn't absolute rubbish at it, but he feels that at least here, he would be more comfortable.  
"We can start charging our customers, and you wouldn't have to worry, practically with me twenty four seven."  
"But my job, I –"  
"John you can start work immediately now or you can start work tomorrow in your boring surgery worrying about me constantly."  
John's head retreated back behind his hands while his tears pushed through and fell to the carpet.  
Sherlock sighed softly and stood up, wrapped his arms tightly around John.  
They stayed like this for a while, before Sherlock could feel John's tears seeping through his shirt.  
"John are you going to make a decision?" Sherlock asked after five minutes, his shoulder was soaked in tears.  
"Um… yeah right okay." John drew in a long breath and wiped his tears away. "What were you saying about the case not being over?" he seemed collected enough, so Sherlock unwrapped his arms.  
"There's going to be another kidnapping, but my nemesis's head is not in the game. Not in this game. He doesn't care because this is not exciting him anymore, I'm not excited anymore." Sherlock stayed on his knees on the carpet, holding John's hand. He turned around and pulled his couch closer.  
"What are you saying?"  
"Someone went to the consultant criminal to get whatever the government organization were planning, first Moriarty was interested, but now I'm back. I'm back so the whole game resets itself and Moriarty stops everything he was doing and returns to the game. But that someone still has their eyes on the government plans, and they're not going to give up when they've come this far."  
"Who do you think is next on the list?"  
"I'm thinking…"  
"Mycroft?" John blurted out, he had no doubt he must be on Sherlock's mind, though the detective would never admit it.  
"Yes." Sherlock screwed his eyebrows together, "How did you guess?"  
"You might read evidence Sherlock, I read people." John pulled a hand through his hair.  
Sherlock huffed.  
"Sure John." He rolled his eyes.  
"Should we visit Mycroft then?" John stood up, his eyelids covered in a shade of pink and damp moisture.  
"Not before we have lunch." Sherlock offered John his hand and pulled him to the door. "A certain doctor's orders."  
John rushed into a hug, pushing himself against Sherlock's body, feeling the warmth. Sherlock held him tighter, parting John's hair and planted several kisses. They stayed for ten minutes, breathing in each other's scent.

Mycroft took a few moments to take in Anthea's rant about her safety, and sure enough she returned back to normal within hours.  
"You have no idea, Mycroft! You have no idea." Anthea's face was filled with rage while her attention was focused on her phone, typing god-knows-what to god-knows-who.  
"I do Anthea, given the brother my mother has blessed me with I have no choice." Mycroft pressed two fingers to each temple.  
"You don't understand I swear." Anthea stopped her pacing around and stared at Mycroft.  
"Have you calmed down yet?"  
"Arghhh!" Anthea yelled, much to Mycroft's annoyance."Yes, I guess."  
"Good could you brew some tea, I think we'll have visitors today."  
"I think I need a raise."  
"So do I Anthea, so do I."

"Singular." Sherlock looked at the plate of untouched cold food in-front of him.  
"Singular what?" John was half way through his meal, seeing Sherlock's full plate, he stared at him until he finally took a hesitant bite.  
"Remember what I told you several days ago but you interrupted me with soup?"  
"Yes, but I can't say I understood what you said."  
"Singular, noun, meaning separate. That's why they abducted people one by one, because of the way the organization worked. Even if they had meetings, each person is separate. They would have had a file on lock that stored information, and since they were all taken separately, I can only assume that they've organized the security in such a way that would require all of them to function. They probably had separate passwords that were all needed. Which would explain why the killer's taking them one by one, otherwise it would be strength in numbers and he might not be able to get the password from any of them."  
John had lost interest in his food, he put his fork down. "Should we know this much about a secret government organization?"  
"There wouldn't be an organization soon if we didn't."  
"Alright, should we hurry to Mycroft's then?" John quickly shoved the rest of his food in his mouth.  
"In a minute."  
"Why? I don't think we can waste anymore time." John was already up and ready to go, but Sherlock seemed suddenly interested in his food.  
Great, John thought, now you're just being a brat.  
"If this is your way of saying I do care for Mycroft but I can't show that I care then I might as well just go and shot him." John tapped his foot impatiently. Sherlock gave him an over the top roll of his eyes and swallowed another mouthful.  
"Doctor's order's John."

"Little brother." Mycroft simply acknowledged Sherlock's existence and turned his attention to John. "How nice of you, doctor Watson, to convince my troublesome sibling to eat."  
"Mycroft." John returned a smile, not wanting to take any sides in this heavy but transparent argument.  
"Tell me, brother, what is this organization for?" Sherlock showed no interest to dull chit chat.  
"I don't think it is in your area of interest Sherlock." Mycroft gestured an arm to his left to the teacups that Anthea had prepared. "Tea?"  
Sherlock kept his eyes sharp on Mycroft's face while his hands grasped for a teacup.  
"Weaponry?" He questioned, "No. Chemical warfare." Sherlock simply took sips of tea as if what he just said had no big effect what-so-ever.  
"How did you deduce that?" John looked back and forth between the Holmes brothers, each staring angrily at the other.  
"Living with a member of the government in my earlier days, you could tell what's happening just by looking at his face. Except you weren't really trying to keep that away from me, were you Mycroft?" Sherlock answered John, his eyes glistening.  
"Well whatever we were planning, you didn't hear it from me." Mycroft looked down at his own teacup, John could see a small turn up of his lip.  
"No, indeed not. Ideas on the enemy that you are dealing with?" Sherlock didn't show any signs of anger or spitefulness considering he was asking his brother for direct clues. He looked more excited.  
"Other than Moriarty? I'd say we've got nosy neighbors." Mycroft set his teacup down and stared at the biscuits sitting next to the teapot.  
John suddenly felt small, compared to how big and how vast this case covers, he felt incredibly small and distant.  
"What do you mean? Nosy neighbors? Are there other countries that's trying to steal what your organization is planning?" John jumped to his feet and self consciously lower his voice, right now it wouldn't be smart if anyone was watching them. "Are there spies involved? Sherlock we shouldn't be handling this case, we should be leaving this to the federal police instead!"  
"John are you hearing yourself?" Sherlock placed his hand on John's sleeve and pulled him back down. "We are the best the government's got; they can turn to nobody else."  
"Didn't hear it from me." Mycroft kept sipping at his tea.  
Sherlock looked at Mycroft, and for once, with genuine alarm in his eyes. To which big brother returned with a small, but sincere nod.  
Sherlock stood up himself, and offered John a hand.  
"Come on, we need to go."  
"We do?" John felt like there was still more that needed to be discussed, a lot more.  
"Yes, urgently." Sherlock's legs already carried him to the door; John threw back a quick goodbye to Mycroft and followed the detective through the door.

"I'm not sure if this amount of sibling rivalry is healthy, Sherlock." John took hesitant steps out of the building. "Mycroft still cares about you in his own way, why are you deserting him now?"  
"Yet you're still walking away with me." Sherlock turned into an unfamiliar alleyway.  
"Yes, because I doubt I could be of much use myself, I'm trying to talk some sense into your stupid brain!"  
"I don't think I own such a thing." Sherlock pulled John into the alley and shrouded them both with his coat.  
"What are you doing?"  
"I believe this is what you call caring."  
"No I meant you should be caring towards –" John's sentence fell flat, Sherlock's lips had interrupted. A swift brush of Sherlock's tongue rendered John speechless, and he fell into the kiss.  
"Mycroft." As soon as Sherlock parted, John felt like he needed to finish the sentence. "No what are we doing Sherlock? Your brother needs our help."  
"In what way, do you propose the British government would need our help?"  
"What so you just dragged me out here for a snog?" John broke out from under Sherlock's coat.  
"No I'm not that dull."  
John crossed his arms, it wouldn't hurt Sherlock to tell him what's on his mind from time to time.  
"That should be enough time." Sherlock pulled up his sleeve, watching the seconds' hand on his watch.  
"For what?" John shivered slightly in the cold.  
"For our criminal."

"Tell me your password!" A young man in his thirties were holding a handgun to Anthea's head, threatening Mycroft. While he was calm and collected, Anthea seemed she had quite enough of being kidnapped for one day.  
"No." Mycroft spoke the single word, not raising an eyebrow.  
"Tell me or the lady dies!" The man seemed to press the barrel of the gun harder to Anthea's head.  
"The lady has a name." Anthea bared her teeth.  
"Shut up!"  
"You're not very good at this."  
The man looked around at the voice, it wasn't Mycroft or Anthea talking, so who was it?  
The door handle clicked as it turned and the door opened, Sherlock stepped through and shut the door after John.  
"You could have stayed a cook back in asia, why are you here in England trying to unlatch the plans of a top secret government organization?" Sherlock took several steps towards the man, giving his deductions with threat.  
The man kept his silence, but raised the handgun to Sherlock.  
"Put the gun down!" John pulled his pistol out and aimed it at the man, ready to shoot if anyone were in danger.  
"How did you know? How did you know?!" The man was panicking, his hands shaking.  
"The way you're holding your gun, you put more of your palm on the top of the handle instead of the side, as if you were holding a knife. But seems like the gun is heavier than you're used to, so a small knife. From a clip point to Sheep's foot, I don't care, but you've got dents on your palm near the base of your hand from handling the knife, so you use it regularly, you're a cook. Asia, that's easy, the color of your skin and the subtle accent of your voice, not to mention the obvious tattoo of the Japanese flag at the base of your neck." Sherlock looked back to John and gave him a smirk. "So, why are you here?"

The sound of a single gunshot tore through the silence. John looked around, Sherlock was still standing, Anthea was by Mycroft's side, and both had astonishment on their faces. Then came a thud and the unknown man dropped to the ground. One gun wound through the forehead, and blood splatter onto Mycroft's carpet.  
"Sorry boys."  
John turned to Mycroft, but he looked clueless too. Staci Hartriss stepped out from under Mycroft's desk, Model 92. Handgun in hand.  
"I had to stop the fun."Staci poked her tongue out at the four, "James didn't need him anymore." Her boots thumped even on the carpet as she waltzed to the dead body on the ground and checked the pulse.  
"Well, I'm done here." She headed for the door and twisted the door handle. "I'm sure we'll bump into each other soon."  
"Are we just going to let her go?" John stuck his foot through the door. "She just shot a man."  
"And he has tortured and killed three," Sherlock bent down and inspected the corpse, "I suspect this is also the man who played the role of Thalie Paddy and the husband together."  
"Thank you for being here." Mycroft directed the sentence to Sherlock and gave Anthea a pat on the back.  
"You told me to," Sherlock stood back up and walked over to the desk Staci had been hiding behind. "Looks like she left me another note, well we best be off now."  
"For real this time?" John stuffed his gun back, "No more hiding assassins?"  
"Well if there were they would hate you right now John," Sherlock put his gloves back on. "No, no more. Let's go back to Baker Street." Sherlock gave Mycroft a sympathetic smile before pushing John out the door. "We'll leave you to the mess that is the brain matter on your carpet and bid you a good day brother."

Mycroft sighed, what else can he do? He picked himself up and gave Lestrade a call about the unfortunate happenings of this afternoon asking for a cleanup team. He then went over to his desk. Below, on the bottom of the polished wood, words were scratched in with what seemed like the work of a small blade.

Nice Meeting you Sherlock. Xx


End file.
